On the back porch
above a white chair of summer
there is a cobweb
dust coloring it visible,
billowing in October wind,
undulating like a wave.
Peaks then valleys
Peaks then valleys
So much change in just
one windy second
fast, violent
like a ghost shaking its bedspread
And yet it hangs on —
no breeze, no bug, no trumpet vine
has come to release it,
to break the peaks, the valleys.
And neither will I.
Because each morning
at breakfast it reminds me:
my life is, also, neither all peaks,
nor is it all valleys.
Change is constant,
some moments are surprising.
But I trust the rhythm
and I, too,
Hang on, dance, and billow.
