The Waddle of the Oar

When peace draws, does it draw a sunset of gold?

Does it reach the asymptote, or fall back in tune?

Will we understand the drawing board,

Or frown at the words upon the wall?

Would the flute play the oboe,

Would the ohm follow suit?

Does the river still sparkle with the twinkle of the star?

Does the waddle of the oar split the silence of the trees,

Or can the willow foretell the story of the girl?

Does the cry of the wolf aid the daisy in photo?

Does the remnants of my glass reflect the soul of my pen?

Can we wash our sins with the wine of time,

Or does luck paint our way?

Will the enchantment of the forest keep the secrets of time?

Does the magic of triangles point due north,

Or will the sunrise distract your eye from it?

Will I see you barefoot in the woods wrapped around the braveheart’s finger,

Or will the smile of the feather be better weather?

The adventurer’s soul will embark no matter,

Even if the wind be cold and the back be bitter.

Will you see the grass as you speed past the deck,

Or will the roses stop to ask your name?

How will you feel when time stands still?

Will the drips of the plane sync with your skin,

Or will the dimensional pull take you?

Will space embody the dancer who’s still?

How darling, will we know unless we ask?

The clock runs the same, and yet we say we are hurrying against it.

The dove releases at the crack of dawn in its best suit if we let it.

Be patient, dear loved one.

There is infinitesimal beauty just around the corner, I am sure of it.