The parameters of heaven
Fall in outline now,
The endless stream within
Will tune its flow
As the wind is remade
By shaking blades
Along its way, deferring
As is possible
To their preference.
The wind has
Nothing else
But this response,
Although it is
A distinct existence,
Real, albeit invisible,
Naked, without a shape.
The seeds blow to birth,
Tree limbs towards earth,
As accidents of force
In the twisting of the stream
Where all things form and bend
For radiant light,
Which twists itself, to the rigid
Molds of beauty
Where what is seen
Matches what is known,
Only to dissolve again,
For the ends are just the means.
The arc of the stream is everything,
The gift of no past
In how nothing's left behind
The current's ghost.
