by Ryan Wong
& we are yet clasping for change, sifted jewels
making homes in tumbling water. Grace periods,
as I am told, are seasons in & of themselves.
What must you give to roll a film of falling snow:
to tell a sandcastle all will be well in the coming wave?
I am yet unsure. Rain, sparse & whole again,
knows it will never be the same cloud twice. Yesterday
a train, today a dog chasing a ball. Perspective blurs
in a world of motion, yet it is the bee who does not
lament the withered flower. Look around & see
the children dance, crooking their knees beneath
a sky of dandelion seed. Watch their feet stamp,
raising clouds of pollen & sand into the air.
It is not so bad to embrace this tiny present;
to drift in transit with only the wind for company.
Seasons gone yet seasons to come: our backyards
still busy, our mountains moved ever so slightly—
shiny, precious things, spinning with endless grace.