Migration

Primordial as the ocean tide,
Seasonal as the butterfly,
All that lives must chart through time,
Their paths to food and peace of mind.

Across the skies, waters and lands,
We move but by this one command,
That nothing stays in time or place,
These cyclical motions are maps Grace.

So who are mortals to deny,
Habits which are old as time?
Brief lines and walls may pacify,
But vines, creatures, and people,
Climb.