All is dis-ease when viewed through the eye of a needle

Unable to take another view by passing through said eye

Encumbered by these goods we have to hold

With no free hand to find a better way

We cannot know the meaning of

A little birds ascension through a blue sky

Or the stillness of a fox by the roadside

We cannot know the mystery each moment holds

Grasping, as we do, at snatches of our past 

Or leaping forward,  net held high, to catch our dreams 

Or stamping on our fears, spat out like sparks from unruly fire

We do not see the root unfurl, the petal fall 

We cannot guess the meaning of it all.