transitory

can we own
the pieces of
our world -stand on
this spot and say
It is Mine
this is My space
of green
My view
of sky - I have
seen this done -
and myself stolen
moments
with a certainty that
they were mine
to keep - but

as I pass warm
soup into cold pale
hands, cold
money into hollow
cups, I see nothing

is absolute
not my words, my joy,
my pain,
my next breath or
heartbeat, or bowl
of soup. who

owns who? my sky, my
worn and mossy
rocks, my precious
sea? - for
when skies scream
for blood in rage, and
water heaves her blackened
crushing weight
devouring – this is not

absolute, and will
pass – my
existence, all
existences

precious and transitory
will pass

I hold another cold
hand
“I will say a prayer
for you” - and for his
prayer I thank
him, then gaze

at a blue
and cloudless
sky

Stunning

precious and transitory
and this too
will pass