The patterns of our days make ripples in the pond That is the stillness of our heartbeat in the end Time is just a picture frame The perception of a change Gives breath to motion, life to breath But that is all it is. We break, we build, we burn we wind, through each minute, each season So that mayhaps the patterns of our days, may not be forgotten and the ripples and the waves in this great big pond may *undulate* in, ever widening circles to lives, ponds, not our own. In hopes we are remembered. But I a ripple, a ghost go hither, go wither, swift, from my source a stream all my own, till the ripples become invisible, like motes and reach toward some unnamed infinity So I go, so I go, So I go. And make my peace with nature, with the colors of the gods