In the Moment

In the moment of inspiration,

in that potent encounter with

the creating inclination of the universe,

in that moment, say,

as Beethoven listened at his piano

while stark moonlight shone through

the frosty window,

and struck upon his keys–

his dark tones and light strokes

provoking

sonata of exquisite beauty and

tender moonlit passion;

Or in that vibration

when the musician touches his bow

to strings;

Or when the artist brushes paint on blank

canvas;

Or when the writer flings his words

on electrons of exquisite power–

in that moment,

do you

attribute it to the withering I, me, my?

or to the source of all creation

as Handel did

or Bach.

As for me and mine,

in that precious moment

we are so small

and trembling, that we draw back the curtain

to peek

beyond data-folding neo-cortex,

beyond eternity’s veil.

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