Change, don’t come knocking

like some door-to-door salesman, chatty
asking about my kids, trying to sell me
windows like some long view into tomorrow
Is it future I want? That small reward
like chocolate after broccoli, the thing
to get past to get to the thing—

(I am poised here, perhaps; to yearn
back is to fall, to yearn forward is also)

Change, don’t come knocking with glowing
reviews, promises, predictions of my want
to pretend my footing is sound; I talk myself
into steady plodding content

(Change, come spilling earthward
a glitter-sharp breeze, a bright flitting
bird singing mysteries

or a quiet cooling touch
soothing shadow
in the night)