All Of Everything Poem by Bryan E. DeYoung

They are a thousand, golden-yellow twinkling wavelengths of incantations painted speckled and blotted about in teasing affirmations upon shadows in remission.

Dancing about whimsically, childishly, they seem to bear no worries as they twitter about in the soothing flow of a steady wind lulling even the strangely mishapen branches into a moment's delight.

A group of passer-bys, unable to resist the beckoning temptation of shimmering radiance come full circle in flight to dive whole in the canopy and disappear.

Then suddenly, in an instant's aside, a brilliant chorus of splendid voices erupt from within the perfectly rhythmic swaying commune as it combs about majestically in the western sun leaving the onlooker not even a breath to be full.

There is wish for its forever presence.... There is a sense of belonging, of happiness, of pure primitive pleasure. There is a sadness in expecting it to once more be leaving.

Seeping away, drawing back, in decidedly swift progression, time little more than minutiae, shadow cast down descending from bricks stacked high into the failing blue hues of the remains of the day, douses out the once wanton glee of the spritely gallavants and closes the window through which propitious fortune was just bestowed.

Many years had to come and go for this short, fleeting temporal thread of time to be born, this time, one in which complexity was laid bare, deconstructed, disassembled to be exposed briefly in simplicity, made piercing, made to oscillate warmly and safely inside of the watcher's tranquil shelter.

There is a sense of a great benevolence out there that is communicating, calling us all home, rooted in unwavering generosity. It offers forgiveness, encouragement, and hope. It exists, continues, remains.

Yet there is also a reminder in this moment's clarity of its own fragility for us, its desperation to be noticed, to be appreciated, to be loved. It bears the sadness within that whatsoever befalls us will in its presence forgotten exists a loss too great to be survived by men.