How much has changed—
since Nothing never stayed the same?

Walls; white, waiting walls—
for the coming of their fall

never came, but winter did—
sure as a thumbnail tack

makes careless holes, monthly holes—
to mark the time.

Cornerstones greet new centuries—
a sedentary resolve,

not a word to learn, nor a word to say—
but no less a statement

of memories, long and gone—
fast and forgotten,

tulip-memories of clouds and beams—
unspeakable patterns, midair.

The same puddle places, cyclic, remain—
after rainy many dreary days.

And sunlit freedom never was so sublime—
as alone, with a thought,

for this world, a witness to keep—
the erstwhile work that comes complete.

Faces grow long, and then short? again—
hair grows out, and then in? again.

And now, I am gone.

03/19/2003

Posted on 04/24/2003
Copyright © 2024 Daniel Peterson