Could you stand for an eternity
with your head cocked, staring
in bright sunlight: at this thing,
fixed, that remains esoteric while I search for it in the sky?

But what is this, why?
Enigmatic, shapeless, convoluted, tightly winding
coil. Who was it, never attempting
to explain or unravel such mysteries to me?

I am everything and nothing at the same time.
My life is harmonious without rhythm nor rhyme.
I live for my ardor and that is enough.

I am demanding and alive and passionate.
I am exact and assured and extravagant.
But I will let it go, without a sough.