WHAT builds or builds up never is in vain.

For much is daily torn down, naturally,
And may need care, repair, or outerwear.
And so we search for ways, or maybe means
To bring disorder back to unity.
This much is plain to see:
But then disorder never leaves for long.
It is how humans are,
And how the universe conducts itself —
That what is new must needs give way to time,

For time at last to bring forth something new.

TO HOLD at last to what we have been told,

Then grow the craft itself,
This is way that art continues life;
An interactive search,
Discovering with tools we have been given
How to build onto humanity.
For there are no small arts:
All creativity
Is both mystic and sacred
Though mundane:

What builds or builds up never is in vain.

IT’S just that we may not be there to see it:

Healing, when it finally comes,
Through medicine, or rest, or cat’s-claw;
Secret workings, lost biology.
Computers break and software fails,
Cars give out and houses crumble,
Yet we hold on to technology,
As though all chance of error
Had been stopped. The body does its work
Without our intervention or
Our will; its testimony one
That we can barely hear or understand.
It is a simple faith:

To hold at last to what we have been told.

WHAT goes away comes back again someday.

Though forms be ever changing, undulant,
And summer yields at length to that coolant
That brings bare winter, on its hands and knees,
With its harsh mockery of what was breeze;
That sends the birds to flee, the soul to freeze.
But season comes to season, creek to bay,
And once again what seemed to go away
Returns: it will, I know, I guarantee it:

It’s just that we may not be there to see it.