Then is a lame horse
unable to stand on four legs.
It limps along in misery,
but we are too attatched
to fire that final bullet
and end its suffering.

Now is a faery wisp,
nymph flitting from flower to flower,
and we with our butterfly net
full of holes, vainly trying to snag the prize,
when it is right before us if we just stand still.

(But we will not)

Insufferable are we,
reaching ever forward
for that tommorrow that is nearer than we think,
sacrificing today for a glimpse at a puff of smoke.

Sit.
Breathe.
Then and now coexist with tomorrow
in a netherworld of mist and shadows,
and we will have it all
if we open up our clenched fists
to let it fly free, a sycamore seed
that hovers in the sun splayed breeze.