A rock moves not when great winds blow,
Nor does it burn when near a flame.
It may grow hot or may grow cold,
Yet the rock will remain the same.
But constant stream of gentle water
Can wear it down to smallest stone,
And what was once hard and strong
Those things it no longer owns.
Now the passage of water and of time
Can make dust of immobile boulder.
Yet still it lives, though changed forever,
And us, a little bit older.
Fear not these passings, time flowing by,
When age comes to us all.
But hold them close, those that you can,
When death has come to call.
Michael's Musings 