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)

On Change

We tasted this water
when it was ocean, cloud—
knew our river in days of ease
and sunshine, wearying
down its banks, claiming
this pocket of complacency
as its best aspect.
                              Of course
we couldn’t hold it. Rains
overflooded the banks
and we were swept along
cries of revolution still
bewildered deep
below the surface