To behold the innermost secrets
of what is to become.
Watch life sleep and burst
from its bed
like a bell tolling
into the distance.
To see every leaf that will open
its scroll after the barrenness of winter.
To listen to the voice
pronouncing words every day of its life.
To hear songs
under the window of the sky.
When we are alive,
to know it.
When we hear rain
to feel the quenching of the earth.
To look into the windows of the street
and see life passing,
people, moods of day and night,
seasons,
lighting of storms etched on their surface.
To see what has been and will become
the here and now,
then sleep and return to the inner dream
of everything.
A smile on the page of nothing.