The Pulse of the Ages
It’s the blush of time in a sunset,
the dance of roses in a glance.
It’s the persimmon fire on a hill,
the meteors within a man.
It’s the comets of illusion,
the jazz of rain.
It’s the poetry of seagulls,
the chant of the chains.
It’s the new bride glimpsed in a snowstorm, the perfume of summer dusk.
It’s the peeling of gypsy paint
on walls too shaky to touch.
It’s the twisting of the moonbeams,
the ﬂavors of the dew.
It’s the pulse of the ages
that is living now in you.