But I was up before dawn
When the tender last whisps of
The time of dreams slides west,
a 5 billion-year-old metronome.
The same, yet never the same.
A bird —a finch, I think— goes about
Her day, at peace, hunting, exploring,
Hopping from branch to branch
With an occasional single pure note
To let her mate know she still is.
The Earth breathes in and out,
A promise, a new day.
The mountains — the same, yet not—
Please me each time
The sun touches them again.
The world lives,
And so do I.
This is enough.
Poet's Corner 