Few Poems Need Few Friends

Things change while you change.
Some change fast, some slow.
You may clock the change.
You may fret. Some things
Won’t change as you wished.

Words fly out so fast
They sound like a stream.
Who knows what we mean?
The stream knows—or knows
As much as the words.

Does this not strike you?
I use words to say
We think words are mute,
Dumb in the cruel sense.
I say so as words.

Time to climb back in
My small world. The flanks
Of the cliff, dull gold
As wheat in the sun,
Flick leaves down on me.

I won’t change as I
Wish. My words won’t think
On their own. Will they?
A new kind of doom,
Then, when the words change.