Sonnet III

A gibbous flare stuck in the drop of glass
In frozen constance, static in the soil.
The bead observed the ruddy dawn to pass
And blinked the years of hours and toil.
The nature's flaw ingrained within the form
Where sinuous blows and marks had fast remained,
Then came the wind again in baneful storm
That dared to wash away its visage stained.
What futile, running, cosmic sustenance!
The fatal Bend may try well as it might.
Now Nature yet unvanquished sees that Chance
Twists everything, all seen or far from sight.
No turbulence nor tempest nor deluge alone
Ever unties the palsy from the stone.