Some blessed hearts remind us
In a breathless papyrus whisper
Or in a laud of praise
Even the sanctified itinerary
It simulates the ubiquitous thrumming
—
Others remind us in the harvest
With hues of golds and amber
Even the scientist intimates it
When the spark of light surges
And we start at the beginning again
—
The tranquility of the stream mirrors it
But so does the crash of the earthquake
It can be heard in a simple cricket trill
And in the surge of the tornado
It is somehow placid but explosive
—
Every clangor of a parade
Every thrash in a mosh pit
Every child with a stick
The variations are endless
But they expose the same truth
—
It is uncovered in a flower’s bloom
We affirm it in the moon’s rise and fall
The engine that fuels all of us
Denies our self-contained egoism
Constructed or organic; the beat goes on.
