STOPPED TIME

Now is the past and the past is the future,

when the great window of dust in sight

folds into the vase of utter climbing,

rhyming vines that lead a journey into solemnity.

Across a mountain the tale turns,

wading through the deepest shallow,

finding a cordial minute mollusk

basking upon a silenced, spoken time.

The dreaming of a time so still

is ending upon all the wondrous

far away lines, where windows shatter

and songful vines twist and fall.