This world, a language bound by time

Measure, meter, melody, rhyme

Or if perchance we dare to climb

Those distant shrouded peaks sublime

We there might find a tongue more fair

Holy kinship in the air

Always present, never where

The Word divine, not quite so rare

Passion perfect all around

Rushing river, all unbound

A silent glance that makes a sound

Buried/lost    Uncovered/found

But then a bell upon a tower

Calls us back into an hour

Temporary toll of power

Parting. Separate. winter flower

Down the mountainside descends

The vision holding us as friends

Held by hope that has two ends

A cord connection, Grace that lends

Its Self in time, now down below

Where only poets really know

Or Music can allow the flow

Of that which only soul twins know

Until that day when words . . .