To live on in time.

In the wind, amongst the trees.

The moment, now, isn’t for me.

To live on, whether broken.

In a half, or a token.

In words held, unspoken.

The moment, now, isn’t meant to be.

Life in motion

is of rare devotion.

Too quickly the days will melt.

And the memory past

will seldom last 

beyond words, unfelt.

There is a place,

beyond all trace

of repetitive motion, activity.

Where lingers the grace

of love, enlaced 

with the perfume of fidelity.