My Found Poem

There are years that ask questions and years that answer.

For others, they sail on forever;

Never out of sight;

Never landing until the Watcher turns away in resignation.

Dreams mocked to death by time,

Settling by slow degrees.

Now they emerged with as much of the ancient power that no longer mattered.

Have sympathy, for the words of the trees and the wind, there is a depth of thought untouched by words and deeper still a gulf of formless feelings untouched by thought. 

A thermometer of feelings swallowed to kill time;

But until death, old thoughts were to come in handy,

New words would have to be made and said to fit them.

A chance to say anything one way or another seemed to be the light of the world;

But there was nothing like the unmeasured time and thought.