outpacing
the state of being,
enough, so shy by
enough,
the wonders of what,
seeming ceaseless in stride with
why,
while about and around
burned clear in
how,
and any awareness,
if not conceived in ill,
will,
without fail,
drip out some vein of
vile,
to a centralized status function.

and still,
the eternal flowing stillness,
and,
the willingness
to be,
etches out this vague
ideal,
dealt in the reveal 
of
a season’s fading breath
the illuminated, late-day
chlorophyll,
begun, somehow, 
even now,
to wilting and decay of
hue,
lest the room for
something new
not be made.

never mind 
if
it all 
may end up the 
same.