When the clocks grew silent, Mellow abiotic laws swept away with the evening's wind The light hit the hills with the softest envy And the grass sat content between our toes
What became of the twilight gleanings Pangea evaded you like the sheepish fox Were the pieces arranged, devoid of meaning? Trembled hands settled and stilled.
If the clover grew to touch the sun The lonely ground sank to feel the core And the trees whispered to the birds Would it be a puzzle at all?