The Tipping Point

Can you find that magical point
beyond all notions of space and time?
when the sun moves on
and the jealous sky draws its blinds,
to welcome a new lover;
when the touch of an artist's brush
gives an empty canvas,
a swirl of fresh new life;
when the chalice of silence
shatters with joy over rolling hills,
with the morning raga of a whistling thrush;
when the brittle, brown leaf
from an old oak tree in Fall,
saves its last dance for the chivalrous wind;
when the roaring wave
crashes against the giving shore, only
to return to its oft-forgotten folds of stillness;
when the warm west wind blows
to call the wayfarers from distant lands,
to make a home away from home;
when the flippant mist reluctantly settles
as dewdrops on fluorescent, newborn leaves,
transient sun-catchers on a forest floor;
when a lustrous pearl is born
from the silent struggle of a cloistered clam,
the unwritten notes of a turbulent history;
when the breath carries the fresh morning air
to fill in and empty the recesses
of this unrelenting human form;
If you do find that magical point,
I think you will know
what it is to love and be loved.