The richness of time
when so distilled 
Is more pure than:
The gold of sunshine
The white of snow
The ruby of the furnace 


Hold me still, DON’T FRET DON’T TAP.
Far beyond the quake the chill
In perfect place
my universal statement is sought.
In where I sit in rigid shape
a grant of grace
from my apprenticeship 
still evades


Foregather a thing
Made of the apothecary’s wrath.
The elements so old and whimsy too bold
Do strike and shock at the table.


How can sense ever be made
Within deep velvet soft.
It’s irritation subtle and sweet


Random questing must dissipate 
Or movement will
In persistence and boredom 
erode all progress.


And slowly so slowly it lifts
Attention drifts, it shifts
Bringing the gift of perfect actuation
To me.


Feet down flat
In my time in my place.


©️ david fry 16th February 2018