has begun so many blank sheets,
overlooked details that could, and do,
make all the difference in a life—
or our perception of it. Even the great
magnificences of nature are attended by insects
and disease. Only one of the Seven Wonders
left to see. The oceans dine at shorelines,
valleys rise and mountains crumble
as the earth breathes. No moment is permanent,
even in poetry, and especially in dreams
when sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference
as we progress into a perfect world of change.
We have become the little people of the planet
hanging-on to whatever busyness sustains us,
entertained by dramatic storylines designed
to sell more of the same—and we buy it,
invest in it, hoping someday to escape
our choices, which we will in due time.
Overnight between rains, the creek has returned
to clear its bed, pushing rafts of sycamore leaves
before it. We are, once more, rich for the moment.