Thursday, November 4, 2010


Leaves drift, as they will,
in the breezes of the air,
in the breezes of the mind;
moments in time, they are,
pages turning in the book
of our times and lives,
turning softly,
margins ablaze
with the errata
of our thoughts,
body abuzz
of our doings.

Time drifts away from us,
through ever-present-now,
in wordless conversation
that rolls and tumbles,
in sleep gathering motions,
changing as the endless sea
reflects the same billions of stars
that have ever been
in the sight of Creation.

Awareness is that point
where I drift away,
yet still am, no less, here,
to see the changed
and the changeless,
the drifting leaves,
the swells and ebbs,
of self, other,
and time.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

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