Searching

Perhaps what we search for is something we have, only hidden.

For what is lost was once without ownership, perhaps it was made lost and then found.

As I look up at the skies, the clouds bundled up like disk bumping into each

My gaze could stay on them for hours.

If we search for a good day, what will we find?

          For a windy day is just, windy

          As is the night, cold

          The morning, still and sleepy

          A harmful day is broken

          and a good day, pleasant.

As the trees grow and the grass sways the moments change.

What are we doing, if only living in the transitions of life.

Only stopping to get our footing and then starting again.

                                                                               To be still in the day?

                                                                               What would we find then?

          Something lost?

          Something cold and windy?

          Something that was pleasant is now broken?

 Or would we find something hidden?

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