I begin to write some words on a line.

As though they live and die at the same time, I think of the reason the rain spilling It becomes a season to awaken Blue, celestial, the sky opens a door Through which the universe will pour the hours Made of sound that is made of memory What but eternal these moments of spring? Cast within the darkness, a light brings forth In the wide and wild forests, a heart, Though red it was called was green and was blue, Ivy, moss, the wing of a cricket, hues, There is no greater action than stillness To cease with the passing of time, Alive.