Stopping time

Sometimes it happens, probably more often than we
think.
When we feel, that's more to the point.
I've watched it, compassion, companionship,
care and more,
coursing out, because the want of it
wells out, and there's no stopping it.

I'm not sure about time. We invented it
some cycles ago. It's a sure measure, yes,
but bodies say something else.

It's odd that a lightning touch
torches everything it strikes,
firing every surface it feels,
in it's fierce finding of
ourselves.

Some time ago we knew what might have been,
and in those moments we thought of
love.

That word turns into
windswept ways, seething in the
Cape southwester,
curling into growing waves that
crash against a daring walk along
the breaking water.

When you stop time,
you know more,
and the ocean agrees,
arguing aimlessly as it moves
incessantly.

When fear dies

There's something in the body you come to trust, eventually,
or not at all.
The timing is interesting, because crisis is what's at stake,
and too early or too late makes you miss the
merry-go-round,
and you might bump your
nose.

Let the people with whom you can be sincere be your
lighthouse, no matter who they are.

And let all you love take in all you are,
so that return will be
complete.

Uniqueness matters less than
music of communication.
When you hear that, and know unbearable vastness of which
you are part,
you sing,
even though your heart hasn't practiced, and your mouth hasn't
kissed.

I wish that our human dust would wake,
at last,
and realize something about the star-fire that
stares us in and from the face, while we're polite about
not noticing it.

Can star-fire die? Has anyone noticed that absolutely everything
is on fire
once you brush the wind's dust from your eyes,
and earth's seduction whispers things you look away from,
momentarily, to gaze at galaxies furious at your
indifference?

We call it beauty, but I think in another galactic language,
fear's removed for the sake of a
quicker
conversation.