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Quiet as a pebble watching from below
nestled in the ruffage
changing composition slow.
The seasons fly on by
Birds and leaves wheel over head
butterflies alight.
The sun is changing all its colors
fading into night
ever slower ever faster
a rapid promenade.
The hand that turns us over
is the hand from which we’re made. 
I cannot believe the speed with which
some of us skim through life
As if this gift of consciousness
is a source of solely strife.
the grace with which the world is turning
moves me close to tears.
How all the clockwork parts have grown
entwined throughout the years.
Pause your blur and ponder on
this thing that we’re a part of.
Wander through it, seek out traces
of the purpose that it’s the heart of.