A Basis

In our lives I am hunting.
There was once a feral field.
A boy and a girl shared flowers.
The past has was yet to come
forward, but we were to believe
in it, when time has ripened.

For us, love occurred to make do.
On the will of the rain, serenity.
There are natural things that are.
The exchange of stems between hands.
A purpose is known yet is not.
In the collective existence only history.

Some moments only have the self.
It stands in the wind facing uphill.
Other moments there is plurality.
A decaying brick that our eyes stare at
shudders like a guitar strum.
Instrumentation defined by one maker.

My music shivers and is acknowledged.
I am the sound-boy made into magic. Selfish?
The earth always shifts with the dipped spade.
A grip makes the insert and then a path exerts.
Life itself is corroded when pursued.
A quest occurs because there are examples.