Oh, wintry flakes pile up on our dwelling place
while summer's green be gone with little trace
until one day stalactite ice gets a grip,
and another day begins to drip.
Soon the forest floor, laid with humus deep
will send up shoots and begin to peep;
from little bits and bites that life discarded long ago
life will resume its spritely show.
Then peeps pop up from forest floor,
their thriving purpose soon to restore;
with us inside our dwelling safe and sound
this man considers what is all around.
See, sprouting life is nestled in a natural place,
'though we have assigned unto it all some human trace.
And so, as if the real thing were not interesting enough,
we go and imitate life with our arty stuff.
And though we so cleverly form our stuff into some crafty work
to promote our art as masterpiece, or some other querk,
we really do just throw our weight around in this natural world
as bull in china shop, while shards get hurled.
That movement comes; this stillness goes
until living dies; then dying throws
its soulful cycle through an open door,
returning it to the earthen floor.
Selah.
Glass Chimera
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