a study of nature
|There is only the land; an epic poem written by the hand of another.
Time plays a memory melody in accompaniment to the slow moving mountains
as I try to write love-letters to the distance.
An ageless song recited by a lonely ocean, the tide carries murmurs of life;
voices in the background, hitting the sand in sad, minor keys.
For the sea, there is only the river.
There is only the wind seeking the creases of a planet balanced on dreams.
Breezes that know nothing of pain, or death, liven the living,
delivering cooling scents from scene to green.
The wind knows only the forces at play that push it forward.
I wonder what the sky knows.
There is only today, and night-time awaits only the coming of another morn'.
Darkness knows nothing except the promise of light.
with pinpoint dots —galaxading examples of nameless fires—
darkness allows travel, unfettered by shadow.
There is only the moment, and time remembers the future
the same way it erases the passages of the past,
contented in just being a part of the now.
Time knows there is only distance