A wilderness blows through the wind,
A laughter swept in motion free;
For joy’s not felt in stasis but
We reach out for the here-and-gone,
And spend our grace so thoughtlessly —
Yet progress has no basis, save
Who takes a picture of the wind?
Who sings the song the grass can sing?
To what cloud is your last hope pinned?
Is giving really gathering? —
The evidence is everywhere,
From Bangalore to Coventry —
That all the treasure we can find’s
In moments, friend —