As seasons come and go, what was newly
rough in spring, now made smooth by battering
waters is thus more precious. Yet, barely
do I detect a coarseness harrowing
silk petals shimmering with morning dew
that may need still a'wearing down. This bee
seeking nectar where it does takes its cue
not from vast fields but a lone pot. May we
defend against the slipping of harsh sands,
bound forever not by commandments or
laws, divine or man made, but by our hands.
Fingers ten but one ringed in precious ore
that brightly sparkles six and eight; fourteen
lines gone by too soon, floating ever down stream.