If only a word, like sinew in the body,
could connect such pure tensions,
as encompass that which is... life.
If only a phrase, could flow,
in its air, pressed out from the lungs,
as the water flows to waves and tide.
If only sentences could fold their faults,
and form a ring as solid as the stone,
that makes mountains grow.
If only the days could be as pages,
to turn them when we will,
and mark them as we wish.
Or left open for all the days,
forgotten until found,
by newly flowered eager eye.