Like a feather in the breeze,
never consistent, never straight,
its path flowing in the whispering wind,
like a running river,
cascading down the mountainside, the
mighty waterfall roars,
turning, tumbling, strong, and yet
so sturdy, like a fortress guarding the treasure inside;
golden treasure like the waking sun,
its beams warming the earth,
warming the smiling faces of people far away;
the people who smile for they can see the rainbow,
that splendid arc of color, a bolt of cloth
like a bolt of lightning across the sky;
a sudden shift in light, a flash
of anger on an otherwise friendly face,
now streaked with tears like
streaks of paint across an artist's easel;
each streak begins another image,
another story, on another page
of this eternal book; one volume of a series
of events that contribute to more, to another,
until everything finds its way to the start;
flowing, drifting, connecting, floating gently
like a feather in the breeze.