Friday, June 17, 2011

Slow


Green vines creep
over fences, up walls, over roofs.
Their work is so slow
that we hardly notice the changes.

A stream runs down
the long slope of a mountain.
We'll never live to see the mountain
worn down to a plain.

Lines grow across the continent
of my face every morning.
The older I become,
the easier they are to ignore.

2 comments:

Dr. Mike said...

I really like this poem.

Rizal Affif - The Soul Sanctuary said...

... the wiser you become.

Really love this post.

In gassho.