Wit, Whittle, Whistle

Now, see that I carve to find where I hide,
Within the many shades of the all-world’s tide.
Minding the rain, a thin layer of varnish,
Paint to sustain, prevent wayfaring tarnish.

Hearing a melody floating by like a butterfly,
Another fleeting moment, one has to wonder why.
A summer’s day, a lark to see what lies ahead,
A winter’s night, the coldness lays our thoughts to bed.

Shaping a rhythm within an extension of me,
Once I let go of myself, only then do I see.
Nothing is truly missing, after being lost,
Everything is now gained, an illusory cost.

With cap and shoes, carefully tailored,
The wind’s own words carry my feet wayward.
Patiently waiting for tears to pass by,
Wit, whittle, whistle the sun-showers dry.

© Sayer Teller

Varnish

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