Moss is climbing up your toes,
pushing forward when no one's watching,
silently moving on, silently moving on.
Spiders spin between the locks of your hair;
one morning you wear a web that's
holding on to the dew, like a crown, like a crown.
Suns rise and rains fall again and again
upon your quiet face, made of stone and
serious like a dream, serious like a dream.
Do these gentle affections of nature
quicken the memory of whence you came,
or all they all lost on you? are they all lost on you?
Covered, I find you do not feel it.
Shown, you cannot see or comprehend it.
Would you hear if I yelled? You stand there; I will yell.