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for Alfredo, although he doesn't know it

“And your very flesh shall be a great poem.”

― Walt Whitman

The thought of distance slowly burns in our minds.  Each day adds to the multitude of memories, each hour encloses its own eternity. What remains to be claimed in our ephemeral bodies?

Unlike reality, the idea of a time takes an unusual form. Much has passed, days, months, and years. Notions begin to rise and fall like the sun when one becomes accustomed to dwell in other spaces.

And with these complex notions we have become lost. How can we find a path as our eagerness to escape grows inside?

With each morning a leaf falls and another grows. A dewdrop inspires the roots of a small twig just as an old tree looses its place. And we, who are we to understand these cycles that surround us?

Our sorrows have a name. Every stream that is flowing through has a message to convey. How to explain this existence that is chasing for words?

Time is a cushion we rest upon, a last resort to survive amidst the unknown. Our bodies hold on to the mystery, to the certainty of capturing a glimpse of truth.

And then, bursting through the flesh, a poem becomes alive. We’re reaching for something that can’t be described. We’re grasping and knotting our ideas. The invisible pieces begin to adhere, shaping each moment.

The thought falls with a tear, just as we are falling. Our notions of “being” continue to encompass the forgotten hours. The indescribable continues to burn.

What is this that we seek?