I

The tall grass sways in the wind, letting me know that








even as I sit here
nothing stops. Not the dark smears that flutter through the flat swirling sky,
not the chirruphing of invisible fleeting creatures, and



not the silent fall of blossoms from a nearby magnolia tree. Motion is
a constant. The birds and the bugs and the blossoms, might think, now. Now.

But in the end, their actions scream, later. Progression...Future...Evolution....










I sit here and feel the coarse
stalks of the tough grass with a smile pulling apart my lips. Pink petals.
Yes, that is it. Wavering in the wind,




they coat the ground and become
the masters of the tiny cities that smolder underneath their waxy protection

because nothing, nothing, will happen
Now—











II
And yet—
The sun is setting.
Draining the colors
From the canvas that is my field.
The petals are gone,
Carried off by the whistling wind.
And then, then, no matter what I do
I can’t quite remember how things were.

“Time waits for no one.”

I wonder. If maybe.
The field will one day,
Return; reorder back to the beginning.
So this progress, this motion,
Will swirl in tiny circles, past.
Leaving a melody in this place
That only will and never was.