There is a node. There, one day,
all ways will
swiftly converge.
Evening’s, or morning-
star glimmers from dear old —
too old now — burlap earth-skies.
Behold the abandoned
once historied
home of us people.
Our present
orbital rush singles out some
veering.
Plumblines occur.
(Abandoned? no,
not yet quite smouldered out within
a few of us.)
All waves
(once ear and eye and intuition’s
and science’s) wash into
symphonic silence.
Time, too.
For at the node
all energies become
that unrewarded effortless and
ruthless kindness,
Person.