Powder on the Wind

Each day's end
tells of our finite span
squandered on passing things,
pounding each other's lives
to dust on air.

We have lost nature's ear,
no longer nurture days
as we would garner
transient harvest
to fend off winter.

Once our lives turned
with the year's wheel;
the seasons saw
we never broke
our bond with earth.

Now we're frittered away
on the sheen of things,
ground in the ceaseless
mill of gold
to powder on the wind.