The convergence is as choppy
As an ash scattering at sea
But the wrinkles they thread
Create time as they find the one
Every time. The ancient slate awaits
Its writing and then erasing
Of flow that keeps movement forward
Albeit Nordic white, and cold as truth
Turbulent as any family's
Ritual spilled drink
Hurled down as a lost opportunity
To haul the puzzle out of space
And let us feel the rise and fall,
The gleanings of the flux
Which inure to us at the moment
Harmony strikes,
What the mountain lioness
Calls her home GPS.
