Textures Of Reality

I cannot grasp the fullness of these bright moments As they glide by like wild soaring birds of summer. O what is the essence of this fresh, spectral light? Is it a constant dance of energies? Perhaps, The cold, detached quantum physicists can explain It to me. Perhaps, the mystics will know via Their prolonged, patient meditations. I've too much Of a butterfly mind for that. I would rather It remained shrouded in a certain mystery. Although I'm happy to accept established strands Of knowledge, it seems that poetry, art and dreams Hint at other hidden textures of reality.