Wednesday, 29 October 2014

The Nimble Butterfly

Time, the nimble butterfly
Slips deftly through our fingers
Not ongoing grief of solemn prayer
Will make it pause or linger
The rich colors of the butterfly
Enchants as it spread it's wings

But while we see the color
We fail to see the means

We think of time as now or or past 
Or something yet to be

Be our concept of the butterfly
I know reality

Time can't be measured by a loock
On some gigantic hand

For time's a place not now or past
Time's the hollow of God's hand.....

Claire-Eugene Denton Bear © copyright