Robert Fulton Laird

100 Years

Oh, earth rolling sideways—
on air—
where are you taking me,
for around 100 years?

Events rapid, or lazy passing—
like a blur—
'til we're old, like wisdom rolled,
evolved from what we were.

Non-disenchanted instant,
times one hundred four—
un-intermittent beauty,
flowing— that most ignore.

Once, I saw this yellow jacket,
though, we could crush, or sting—
instead, we went about our way
as one, a "mini spring".

Anything less is—
immediately noticable— cruel—
when compared to what it could
for the whole, should—
a natural tool.

Now, here we are—
spinning, buzzing, writing free—
in elegant moments,
blended invisibly,
barely measurable—
times three.