A brief lapse in time—
an exhalation of the breath,
in so short a span—to think—
and then finish thought.
As the gentian undresses—
coyly—behind the silk screen
of morning, I'll just be stirring—
bedded—half unconscious.
All the beauty that breaks
does so out of sight—
though it were known to me
as clear as memory.
I'll stop o'er the bridge
as—unannounced—thought returns—
a flighty guest—
whose visits are never long.
All the knowledge I have
is by myself unlearned,
When—in the quiet moments—
my visitor pushes in.
Thought, when it's recognized
unto itself—disappears.
So, is the rosebud prompted—
to wilt—when plucked at.
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Artwork by John Singer Sargent
