These hours multiply into days
And weeks that change the face
Of time as we deem it to be
A sacrament of purpose
The ordained task of becoming,

Of going back into the nothing
Reversing thought unto its root
The very first act of conceiving
That led to this giant oak
Beautifully flowering,

It’s the rhythm in the easy flow
Gradually sustaining hope
And all that its colors show
Underneath our shells
The words we utter

Assailing the ancient shores
Our waves unending
My heart on my fingers counting
The miles I trod betwixt the roads.


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