The sun shines on Erin's birthday. Numbers change and change again but grand sun overlays the vista. Trees become full of where we are, and time produces shadows. We live in the moments between other moments while all that spins with the wind. That wind makes a formal breath and a tone to open, inward, outward, always. In the vast singing that we call Universe, a bird compares with anything. Just now, house sparrows produce a pattern of embarkation, into the natural wind of being still. Call them rain clouds, porticos, ambassadors from translation. They survive the time they do not survive. As do we all, as gentle plants and animals. Clocks plant everywhere, with their entity of numbers. No advice can be given, just a charged moment and the native embrace. We all long to hear the songs that can be made. The sun shines because the sun shines because the sun can shine, in its loving explosion. We meet to meet again, in the rapid moments that time gives us. Erin, it's your birthday, time and time again. We will love in all that time.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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