When seasons changed, and I knew what it meant, 
The world and I were one in our intent. 
The clouds made sense -- their movement, and their grace -- 
And why a dog finds butterflies to chase 

Across a meadow seemed to me just right. 
An empty exercise more than a fight: 
The things we do because we're wired to 
That have no meaning, neither false, nor true. 

The voices in my head, then, weren't man-made, 
And pleasures came as circumstance arrayed 
Them; always wondering, and wonder-led -- 
The eye that waits becomes the soul that's fed. 

  But now a season might walk in my door, 
  And I don't seem to notice anymore