At This-Precise-Moment In Time Poem by Mark Heathcote

Ah, at this precise moment in time
The dew is gathering plentiful tears.
Ah, at this precise moment in time
A garden is harmonic, all ears.

And jasmine vines twist and twine.
As they scramble to climb ever higher.
Together make limbs that then consign,
Never to reach what'd make them stronger.

Isn't that what binds us all when we're young,
Isn't that what severs us all when we're old,
Gives-us a sense of purpose when we're sprung,
Like seedlings dispersed—uncontrolled:

Ah, at this precise moment in time.
The dew is shaken-freefalling anew.
Ah, an open-wide grave like a shrine.
Calls and their seeds take root in you.

It winds, and it grows and never stops,
It never wanes or rocks; it just climbs.
It reaches for the sun's bright burning watts.
But that just-isn't enough warmth-oftentimes.

Ah, at this precise moment in time.
The dew is gathering-plentiful tears.
Ah, at this precise moment in time-
They've-vaporized to climes with no compares.