Seasons crawl along and take a form all their own.
Years cling and cover them,
As vast spiderwebs.
What we recall,
Is just a simpler design.
The day to day,
Is spent weaving the smallest addition.
Caught on the breeze that soars above creation,
Always falling from the heavens.
The web never losing form,
The years never being lost.
People themselves, may crawl along like the seasons.
But they have a unique gift,
Perspective that the winds will blow and they will land somewhere anew.
But whereas the seasons and years remain,
The people are ever growing and will ever change.