Pity those
Who in fruitless pursuit
Of all evil’s root
Forsake that which matters most
That which can’t be controlled,
Hurried, cajoled
The commodity, none can trade
An end that can’t be stayed

It slips right by them
Where they stand
That most precious gem
The hourglass sand.

Rather still, the thinking man
Who knows what it is
To sit and gaze on that or this
Who just rests a while
Beneath birch,
Or perched
On style
And just is
And just be’s
Who says I am,
I understand.

Robert McEvoy