They pass the days peaceably,
marking the sun as it shifts the horizon.
They rarely see truth as it is shielded
in grand schemes and small dreams.
He would not see her broken,
though a crack there may be.
She would have him hold her, keeping the pieces together.
What is tomorrow,
when today is better than yesterday?
What are birdsongs and treesongs
if not hymns to nature’s time?
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