Some Transience Is Eternal

Each poem I create is transient bloom,
Impatience planted for the summer show,
to live and die. These dollops with their doom
Appear and disappear as off they go

Like lives and stars and other life-long tents—
This Universe of God’s evolving time—
The mystery eternity presents
Because a poem is often merely rhyme

And breath and ink and thought—no more than that,
Unless in stone its etched, but even then,
That too will fade and melt and where it’s at
In years ahead is far from human ken.

Yet one—Perhaps—may prove a fertile seed
For fruitful tree when humans find its need.