Passing moment

It's all here:
the long-dead past, still ornamental;
the barriers that also protect,
the subtle invitation of dawning color,
the looming dark,
the single flower,
once a harbinger of spring, still hanging on;
the river, which, though flowing,
seems to have stopped
for the sole purpose
of reflecting the halos of ordinary things;
the softness and the edge,
the rough and the smooth,
magenta sky and green green earth...
a trick of light
and a single moment,
explodes with everything that is --
save us, of course;
we who stand and watch... but stop!
I hear the slap of oars in the distance:
a scull will break the surface of this stillness soon.


* * *