A living time will blow this way, and that,
As others near us swirl with those same winds;
A whisper in the breeze - a morning chat -
A sudden rain to douse, to wash, to rinse --
Whereof the golden span we think as ours
Seems but to others as a place of waste,
We see the tallest near us as these towers
To strive to be like, in ideals encased
Like heroes, heroines, or angel-types:
The real ones see distinctions others miss
As twilight brings a world of subtle stripes
That bend and tangle, wrap around, and kiss,
And in the end, what counts is not the yield,
But how much life is fit into each field
