Deft fingers, light puffs of breeze
lift familiar pages
toward a sun’s benign interrogation
when readers,
for one moment,
abandon the book,
turn away to fill that cup
at another faucet
spout.
Forever, curious eyes
find the story,
someplace forward, perhaps
back, it is dependent
on luck or God.
Meanwhile,
excited light bombards
today, dusting our shroud
with a blue under which,
visible movements of leaf
and worm are lies,
teasing that time exists.
A stone has
no connection
to sand.
Tree does not
remember or imagine seed.
The clock reads today
for as many centuries
as complete
an instant.
Only one observer
sees any of this
and only when
he or she
returns to the book,
refreshed.
Robert On The Air 