His melody

His rhythm was present in the given heart beat
In the taken respiration
Fading from his thankfulness in empty repetition
His rhythm noticed in the wonky gait
Of the winter morning

His theme was present in the echo of the autumn woodcutting
In the scent of the ripening fruit returning

His melody was as present in garlands of hope
As in wreaths of sorrow

And as the music of life is played
And as we are played by the music
How can we look to know the whole?

For looking from the inside
He was present in the music of the world
Looking from the outside
The music was present in him

And the meeting of inside and outside
Was forever out of sight
Until conscious movement
Gathered intuition

Marking a time
Not our time
There from the very beginning

Only then was feeling superseded as the centre of being
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