The water strider
darts back and forth
In waters of gentle flow.
Soon to notice,
he has actually moved ahead
and with the tide he must flow.
The spider busy netting
his story from rock to rock.
The trapped insect, probably dead,
on his hammock rocks.
Cascading waters bubbling with joy,
collecting in activity at little spots.
Going downwards they flow like tears,
merging into placid pots.
As feet on these rocks, covered with moss, cool,
the mind tries, in many ways, to fool.
Withdrawn, watching just a moment born.
Then why would little things make me feel I am torn?
I am at your feet Now
Only You shall tell me
What and how.
Nature, to you, I Bow.