In Motion

Day by day, soaking dark warmth from life
Musky mushroom flavor of fresh earth lingers
In the middle of night by the light I write
Clawing reality with typing fingers

Where do the children grow? I’d like to know;
So many dried cocoons but not enough butterflies
Colors dance when they are alive; all else is imitation
The artist with his sable brushes knows this wisdom

Flowers sway, children play, the sea swells brine
The stars shine, the moon glows, the poet knows
The wisdom too in words of rhyme or prose
Color the beauty but it must move to be alive

Coffee stained fingers rinsed in shaving water
Brush the stubble of sleep on an early chin
Pausing to meditate on future events of motion
Wondering at the history of life contained in them

Wiping the steam from the dream and the mirror
In the swipe of a motion philosophy fades
Day and dancing ways of life seem clearer
At least in the reflections that were saved