Whiling away the ten o’clock hour, sphiroid thoughts within the quiet of the mind

Silence in the hours before,

Chips of painted conch

chink in the breeze

Amid the spindrift of an impervious spring front,

I lay there thinking

longed to be reeling

in something other than my own

inclination and at that

was so inclined to reaching

at my books….

One poet came to mind

One whose words so bold and gentle

leave me wanting

one whose typfaced syntax

leave my heart in blissfull aching

Edna St. Vincent Millay….

A worn and tweeded cover is it blue,

pages must and moisture like the yellow plastered walls

of some thoughtful structure dotted

on a tuscan hill

or layed out in a scorching provencial field of lavender

And I a peasant, thrown down in it’s warmth

under the sun squeezed through the cover


And in it’s blue sky falling open did I read

“Moss Tyler

May, 1939″

Oh such perfection,

circular masterful Kairos

Mystical ancient orchestrated

instances occupying space and time

Wrapped and packaged,

set forth for me to realize

And as I realize

I contemplate in grace

an infinite million more to come