A Futile Climb

Beneath the sky’s vast, endless dome,  

Lie whispers of what we can call home.  

The winds may howl, the rivers may roar,  

Yet our hands can't halt what nature’s for.  

To speak of storms or fleeting time,  

Is to chase a phantom, a futile climb.  

For what we can't hold, what slips through the grasp,  

Belongs to the world, too wild to clasp.  

Why burden the heart with what it can’t steer?  

Why fill the air with unwelcome fear?  

Let silence cradle what storms demand,  

And keep our words for what’s in our hand.  

For power resides where choice begins,  

Not in the sky, nor the tempest’s whims.  

So speak of the seeds that you can sow,  

And leave the untamed to simply flow.