Rain that falls like

A thousand glass beads

On the ocean’s surface

From high clouds of

Diction and consonance.

Lush pastorals ambling through

A yellow forest on worn roads,

A sunlit field with gilded stones.

Transmundane musings

On the leap

From pen to paintbrush.

 

The ocean doesn’t mean.

It is and becomes,

Swells through and around.

Neither forest nor field

Guard a secret that

Wright or Frost could

Pluck from the earth.

No resolution possesses the

Consequence of the thought

That cultivated it.

This doesn’t mean

Anything

But its movement,

Its happening.

 

A name has no definition

Besides its owner.

The meaning of a moment

Is its occurrence

Amidst millions of maybes.

There is no purpose,

Or need be purpose,

In being

Any greater than

To be.