Jon Collins

Perhaps life is a momentary twist in fate and time, within which Sentience has its chance to exist. From nauseous, harsh First discovery of air and light, the celestial clock starts to tick

“Perhaps this is the day…” “Perhaps ideas will spring like blades of grass Pushing forth from winter 's fall…” “That moment of sheer joy…” There is no poetry here. The peeling paintwork

Tender shoots no more may stretch Toward the light, no robust roots To push through soil, and sand ,and loam Where once the fragile buds of spring Formed blossom, nectar laden, Glistening with

The top of the hill is a place where I linger Casting my gaze on the people below Taking my time as I let my eyes wander Nothing to say, and nothing to