How can I define
These good minutes
That spring from hope
And sun and flow from
Within to radiate
The room?

I can call the blackness
Down onto the page -
The muffled cloudy thing -
Easily enough,
But this sun of brimming
Wholesomeness and peace
Is harder to define -

It flares non stop
But cannot be caught
By words, capricious
Being evading
My hand: for it 
My pen simply
Will not sing.

So I sit and
Crimson grin, breathe
Aeons in and eat
These good minutes
That burn my tongue.
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