Monsieur Dasein a de beaux moments

"The most beautiful moments, the most

dreadful quarter hours," to quote the wag

with a perhaps a touch of envy at the staggering

ambition of his totalizing contemporary.

You don't have to be a huge fan of either,

nor of opera, nor even of animated parodies

involving carrot-chomping cartoons in blonde

wigs and horned iron helmets to feel the pull

of that witticism, to feel, in a slightly offended,

slightly contented sort of way, your life

resembles that remark. Moments remain
memorable for being unretainable,

for never remaining, not even even for

one moment, while clock wings, sundials,

moons, seasons, calendars, forever
entertain the stunning power

of appearing stupendously inert

at any moment of closer inspection.

You can feel this, yes, and yet never
guess whether the quarter hours

are the actual authors of the beauty
with which the moments, passing

as these rustles of light rearranging
shadows, manage to enchant us.