Life is so short, you say, wistful.
This is all God has to work with, I reply.
So we just have to keep going, we both think.
Meanwhile, tiny fish make their own light
in the bowels of the Pacific.
Lungfish, buried and motionless,
wait for two years for rain.
While summer slips us downhill
with a green sigh,
mountains rise and the sun sinks.
No comments:
Post a Comment