What is certain
about the abstract?

I

There is this thread
through the days
of our life.
It feels real,
it may be real.

Yet
we cannot name it.
This light
colored
thing
with
no name
or description
lifts
our spirits
quickly
with a blink
of time.

What might it be?
We ponder briefly
this imponderable
essence.

Why
does
it
feel
so
real?

II

Imponderable being
is not
quite
what
is meant.

Yet
there
falls
time
from
its
lip.

Ancient
breath
is
inhaled
and
flows
back
out.

What
is
this
untouchable
presence?

There are
many names.
Yet it is
what is.

Only
what is.