( I apologize for having to used two message spots for this poem. The other was not correct, and being such an important thought, I wanted it to be just right. Thanks)
In my hand Sits the World;
My fingers trace the water,
As my palm caresses the soil.
The mould of Creation
Is a fragile sphere,
If I was to close my fist,
Would it all disappear?
With my fingers
I squeeze the Earth,
As the water drips away,
The soil turns to dust.
In my hand
I held the World;
The memory of what once was,
Is fading fast.