A ring around old cobble.
The pane that stands between millennia.
Write it; move on.
I have/I will have written in the waves of echoed song.
A gradual, rolling rumble from few spots on the horizon brings a chorus for the dawn to sail its orange sunlight o’er.
The breeze feels like an echo of a cold too cold to bear, as the gull glides on its currents and the waves of winter light.
I sit in soft, surrounded solitude.
Only, really, time for teaching (worth it) others.
Am I ever writing this? You were always reading this. The stars knew they were burning…
Momentum felt as sep’rate moments: such is time.
Even as (ephemeral) the winter’s apogee takes Easter on and, late, chase they the heels of Autumn.
Perhaps you know it all already. Do you?