Every element
mattered and made
its way to the surface
carrying with it
a memory of itself
from another time
and far away,
all connecting to that
amazing crescendo
of being,
a mosaic moment
made for joy
awash in a convergence,
an alloy of singular melding,
inscape of landscape
and swelling soundscape--
a sense-scape
once played with no copy made,
never again to be, having been.
And having been, always to be.
I alone was there to see it.
To know it. To praise God for it.
To praise and leave it.
And now, as if betraying a secret,
I ask this pale poem to carry
within it that impossible
freshness (fading by the minute
like recirculating air).
I gather and order these words,
none of which were there.