As soon as I’m organized,
New winds whip my world away.
Maybe it’s something I’ve said.
No, this is what I meant to say.
Storms grab my boughs and,
On the ground, shred them.
I keep smoothing out folds,
The season tied up and bound,
But none of it holds.
Page after page the ages run,
And I die before I sing.
Loose as any leaf,
Stripped of everything I’ve done,
And edited beyond belief, I
Only add another ring,
And turn again to sun.

Kawela Bay
February 20th, 2018