MAY 10, 1969

Written by: Wm Paul

Passing through this land,
Watching all that is,
I find that things may
Not be.

They are there for
All to watch and grow.
And sit.

Green from rain,
Brown from none.

Different skin.

Watching clouds build,
Then blow away.

People see,
Notice not 
What we are.

But what we are in
Searching souls,