Never bolt anything down;
don’t brand it,clamp it,

Affix it to yourself, nor
claim it as your own.

The wind will blow it
astray in time.

The sand will cover it.
verdigris will creep and,

Rust which never sleeps,
Will eat it anyway.

Instead:
Polish it, preserve it,

Repair it, conserve it.
love it for a while, and,

If it’s fragile,
then mourn it should

It wither away.
We all succumb to some decay.

But of those precious thoughts,
we’re all concealing:

In moments of cleaning, raking,
sweeping and inner leaning,

Caressed by a healing sun
and touched by empathic breeze;

These golden times, when
some small thing, puts us at ease.

Do they too contract with us,
in the last consuming pyre?

Or are they, in that time
of inevitable fire, as birds...

Released.