Oftentimes I may find myself gazing at black swans as they glide in and out of the twilight hours of an inlet's low hanging mist.
At my desk too, I grow attentive to the memories of things that I have seen, heard, smelled, tasted and touched as they again seem to become enfleshed. 
Once more the smell from the steaming afterbirth of a newborn calf, the sight at dusk when, with the sound of an eyelid's blink, a blackbird parts the shadows to settle upon a branch within a tree's silence.
I feel just as truly the rough-tongued clasp of a sea anemone around my finger-touch to its heart. I taste once more the austere sacredness of my first communion host and the sound of my breathing as I enter the stillness where I become at one with my absence.
As my body slows down, almost fully engorged from the lust of the senses for the world it dwells in, I listen to the music of my mind interpreting the nuances of meaning, the subtleties of connections.
ancient pond—
the everywhichway
of words

oh wow!
the M-theory
of it all
birth cry —
a moment's coming to be
of what wasn't
star gazing —
am I in my body
or not?
such a path
unfolding within
a tree's warmth
twilight chorus —
the song carrying through
to silence
light too brief —
the opening of words
to their source
at rest
light and darkness
beneath the all 
in all
ingasp —
holding the light
no longer
nothing . . .
all over in less
than a second
the hour glass
of her words
in between
day in — day out
dawnsong —
dark matter
with a voice
just being
also itself:
a lily
nine eleven . . .
time unravels the heart
of our darkness
rumours of war . . .
the shadow of my breath
darkens a dead sea
awake with the birds
I distill the who I am
from the edge of light
the all
that's missing
the words
earth rot . . .
such mystery scenting
sweet nothings