Inside, it’s getting close to dinner time.
Tonight it will be rice and onions
Which will warm this soul,
While outside flakes of soundless, white snow
Fall like cold light reflected upon cave walls.
In the time it takes for the slow tempo
Of a snowflake to fall into consolidation,
The hot water releases its blisters,
And desires to melt with the white rice
And to boil for an eternity.
Eventually all dreams will come to an end,
As busy time never takes a moment
From its eager journey toward the kingdom of becoming.
The present hangs like a living painting,
Like a crystalized scene viewed from a frosted window.
Before a moment can be claimed,
The onions are done,
the rice is cooked.
In sixty years, will this snow remain?
Is sixty years, what will the window observe?