On Art (an epiphany to creation)
Oh but, stop!
For it is happening.
Like dawn’s telling of sunrise,
like the wind’s combing of lake water,
as it fills my sail out of its flapping confusion,
into its journey.
As a child’s birth, witnessed.
Like the undeniable arrival,
of a presence,
that whispers to an eager ear, lent,
dazzling my sight out of blindness’ daily.
sweeping my feet, aloft,
becoming not me, but we,
possessed by the Zahir that fills it all,
commanding me to tell it as it lives me through,
blood that is not,
gushing in my veins,
echoing my very heart.
It is here, now.
Rendering me helpless to my light and darkness,
doing its will,
If only for the short breath,
that a fix, lasts.”