Time, the nimble butterfly
Slips deftly through our fingers
Not ongoing grief of solemn prayer
Will make it pause or linger
The rich colors of the butterfly
Enchants as it spread it's wings
But while we see the color
We fail to see the means
We think of time as now or or past
Or something yet to be
Be our concept of the butterfly
I know reality
Time can't be measured by a loock
On some gigantic hand
For time's a place not now or past
Time's the hollow of God's hand.....
Claire-Eugene Denton Bear © copyright