February 22, 2009 (I was 64)
The sights are so easily lost
the eternity of the universe
disappears in the details of days
less than a week in the man-made world
diminishes the being of world-made man
walk in the dirt and on leaves under trees
breathe in wind blown miles to your lungs
acknowledge the calls of birds
position the web of the spider
between the eye and the sky
The sight of then and that of when
transports thou out of now
the this of this to the wish of that
reading the log or plotting a course
when you could be navigating
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