patterned cycles

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quest: why & how

It is early in the morning;
for me late into last evening.
Should catch some sleep;
before my alarm does beep.
I sink into my cozy white bed;
with thoughts that have no rest.
Where does time lay buried?
I always find myself hurried.
Questions with no answers,
naps that long to be slumbers.
This is my daily routine -
a way days end and begin.
The morning sun is bright
I refuse to see the light.
But my alarm did not fail;
Neither did my mail.
I get all dressed,
another day to be rushed.
My questions still wait,
to be addressed late tonight.

flames of white

To the heart, to the heart the white petals

Quietly fall.

Memory is a little wind, and magical

The dreaming hours.

As a breath they fall, as a sigh;

Green garden hours too langorous to waken.

White leaves of blossomy tree wind-shaken;

As a breath, a sigh,

As the slow white drift

Of a butterfly.

Flower-wings falling, wings of branches

One after one at wind's droop dipping;

Then with the lift

Of the air's soft breath, in sudden avalanches

Slipping.

Quietly, quietly the June wind flings

White wings,

White petals, past the footpath flowers

Adown my dreaming hours.

At the heart, at the heart the butterfly settles.

As a breath, a sigh

Fall the petals of hours, of the white-leafed flowers

Fall the petalled wings of the butterfly.

To my heart, to my heart the white petals

Quietly fall.
-Thomas Moult