Chaos
Posted by
Martin Savage
When the wind blows,
The curves are familiar,
And you can map them
With handfuls of dust-
With handfuls of colored
Sand.
Where the leaves grow,
Each half is one repeated,
Recognized from each one
Previous, like a book left open
In an empty classroom.
What faces that are seen,
Reincarnated memories,
Different only for small imperfections
The the mind often forgets
Are the same.
So this in our chaos,
Matured.
In old age, it is as predictable
As the rest.
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