Sunday sermon to myself -- an antidote for ego

You cannot predict the world
Or a day or an hour or a nanosecond,
Or where the bird will fly or the seed will fall,
Or exactly how fast the butterfly’s wing will flutter,
Or what color the honey will be this year,
Or whether there will be rain tomorrow.
 
The ego craves a pattern,
To know beforehand, how things will revolve around itself,
Even evolve around itself,
But that is a dead end for delusionals and dictators.
 
Not knowing is alive,
Creeping, gnawing, decaying, growing, remolding, metamorphosing
Becoming, in every conceivable unit of time, not itself,
Pressing on and around like waves or quicksand or water in cracks between fingers,
Or air or clouds, not there as soon as you are in them,
Or touching a horizon and discovering the marvel of its disintegration.

Image below: Reflection of birch and sky on the still lake off my island.