Art

The whole chorus saying only one thing: look at what goes, where we stand in the midst of it: Golden eyes of the beginning, deep patience of the end. Stone-deaf, the rocks in silence are writing our lives: mossed, or lichen- daubed to brightness, their gravity is here to stay. . . but so is the butterfly winged with light and in a dozen minds at once, letting its life be wamble and whim as air determines, though still a fixed purpose sticks to it, it knows the score the chorus follows as one voice, singing Light whelms, whelms, and will end us, while a painter, old, is leaning slightly to the right or left.