The silver moon is no slave to its phases.
Between fullness and newness she does not hide.
She cares not for her waxing or waning white faces,
So long as she may enthrall the wild-blue tide.
And a clock does not look at a minute ago,
Nor even the moment it’s on.
It spends all its life counting the minutes to go,
Until all the minutes are gone.
And flowerless flora don’t often weep
But stand still, stout, and regally-bound,
For it isn’t the ground but the sky that they seek,
And so wait until spring-time is found.
So do not chase a sinking star,
Await a rising sun.
Do not focus on who you are,
Focus on who you’ll become.