wending
They’ve named me “movement”, round here —
A fool no more perseverant than the wind.
“Shifting”, they call me.
They refer to me as “change”.
And of these things, I am perpetuity —
In truth I am just a man.
I’ve been here before, this space.
Indeed as wind — or more soft as a breeze.
A man walking, perhaps lost,
Or am I here with purpose?
Unwont or unwanted, I am — hesitant —
Here now in nature.
Whether random, or by some divinity —
Or merely by cogs turning in a clock,
I blinked myself here,
Blind from watching stars.
All the while wondering, “Will this moment go —
Or from these lands, should I?”
J’H
PS__
What an odd time. Upheavals.
And in mere days such odd change.
Old-time friendships are falling like rain.
Splat, splat. Splat. and I am splattered.