Does the Supreme’s honey come after sublime treacle?: A poem 

The wind in the trees 

is shedding all the leaves 

Could all this suffering 

bring me to my knees? 

This old is an ancient breeze 

The clock that never stops; whom does it please? 

I open my window to a frieze 

It seems to question me: 

Does all the time in the universe 

measure up to eternity? 

Can a lime describe all the sourness? 

Is an adjective larger than its object? 

Am I equal to the task? 

Can I deliver all that is asked? 

Who sees all the motion 

as just static squares on the floor? 

That time is not a wave 

but sand on the shore 

And how is this journey so never-endingly long? 

Does eternal sacrifice make me strong? 

Can I believe in the swoop of a wonder-miracle? 

How long, for the honey of the Supreme, can I be sublime treacle?