It is odd to me
Seeds of change within persist
As winds of nature dance atwist.
Play in space and dance in grace,
Ever, through all times embrace.
Without arms it does the deed,
Stops and drops the carried seed.
Within a paradox of blend,
Where sinks the roots until its end.
The wind, the artist without a thought,
Paints the canvas green with thwart.
Beyond imaginations ken,
Where lies the primal Eden den.
The garden of the apple seed
The garden of our Adams deed
The garden where the wind has blown,
The garden that the wind has sown.
And here is where we seek confession,
Amongst the winds indiscretion?