ESSence

It is nice to be certain,
In a sense to be in the right; its essence
Fills out off you.
I have since felt all around, I would
Of things that are certain.


It jolts me – growing simple and obvious
The lapse of seasons,
Memory’s stronghold,
The bark of leaves at being swept away in haste,
Provoke changes.

Tired, I refuse to turn at the
Tapping feet’s rhythm,
At grand canonical expressions,
From those significant flappings of hibernation,
Of nature’s monopoly, uncertain I curl.