Going, Going

 

   
    The tap-dripped drop’s lost in a bowl
    while inconspicuous ants are blown to dust.
    Our quickened selves have ghosthood as our goal.
    The universe? It passes – as we must.

Change

 

 
These days,
I rarely see the particular
unless I am lured by the rose,
the effective daffodil,
sheet rain as it slopes blue
down roof slates.

My eyes are for blue
beyond the seasoned sky,
its rainbows, its rushing dawns,
a flash to uplift grass
greyed at the root
by my worn shoes.
 
When I am bigger, I will cull clouds,
puffs blown out of the endless.
I will pull down all the days’ darks,
watch cobwebs crackle to dust.
I will polish the blue
so it brightens to white
and light     light