Morning to morning, the old dog said,
that is the way the days all grow
together. Hard knowledge will not sliver
the channels of time. The rain will rain
and snow will snow, each to its season.
Rivers will wander off to the seas and
trees reach into the skies to twist
tatters of sun around ribbons of wind.
All cycles turn, each with its own
texture warped in the passage of days;
each day a separate fibre that may
be remembered, but long after passage, lost.
That is the way that a life is shaped:
morning to morning, the old dog said.