Is a web that is torn
A tear from our fingertips?
Or from the tip of a leaf, blown by the cloud’s wind?

Are the squawks of the crows
Echoes of our footsteps, which were laden with crumbs?
Or the making of simple evolution?

Could the graffiti that mars the minding path
Be the stain of fruit from the flowers?

Is the crying wound that drips down the trunk
A stunt made for us to feel guilt?
Or a mark of the wood we have taken
For those beams across the doorway

As I look around,
I find that all that mars
Is work of these hands
These very hands and the ones they hold

And yet the moss
Intertwines with the rope
And good always adapts