In the still damp earth of a fine winters morning, the bear wakes, and sees the cubs happily playing, chattering of distant glades and new friends to be made.
We seem to have survived again, with no rhyme or rime to reason
And yet the cubly chatter smashing on all in fervent excited.
Then the old bear starts to notice that we didn’t know,
That for lots inside that time has stood still,
The cubs are not ageing.
Yet in passing thought the world of each cub is personally engaging,
vivid like a dreamlike shimmer.
To be scattered lost,
and rejoiced.
A message is slow in sinking in, but to this bear it’s terror,
That one who visits the glade has oft asserted that I are we, together.
And so I’ll close this recent entry, we are off to find a neighbour.
We’ve heard a tale, long and dark
Like all the best ones are,
Of a new glade not far away, with a wizard
Swift transforming.
So out the burrow, squeezing
The flash of light that from the sun, has this dear earth transformed
And yet, and yet we could not stop without the cubs
Summoned, scattering, learning