-Ecclesiastes 1:2-11

That which is said to come already is
And was, and so will be again – the sun
Will rise tomorrow, perhaps not upon me
But still the sun will rise again tomorrow

And warm the waters in a little stream
That laughing play with fallen autumn leaves
And all of them swim past a rotting pier
Where little boys with their cane poles once fished

The river currents flow, and so do we
To find our sunlit dreams upon that sea

it's my birthday.
i cried last night of the thought that i really made it another year.
the rain seemed to push me down so hard and i can't believe i'm still here.
walking with my friend yesterday,
i looked at her,
just by looking at her,
i knew that i should be here.
in that moment,
i knew i wanted to stay.
it's birthday and i'm --,
another year of breathing,
another year of crying,
another year of smiling,
another year of feeling like i was nothing,
another year of loving,
another year of me.
i don't know how to feel this year about myself yet
but
i'm here and that's all that matters.

Let’s take your ragged soul and patch it up together.
I’ve got some thread, and tricks up my sleeve.
With your grit and wit
we’ll  take the pieces, and make them fit.
Your new you may feel strange,
because some parts are re-arranged,
but your vision will be clearer,
and your hearing more  attuned,
emotions deeper--
when we’ve stitched up those wounds.

If you think the moon has a soul
And the trees are whispering your name
If you can feel the pulse of a mountain
And see advancing armies in the clouds
Start writing, you're thinking like a poet

You said to me the other day
There's only me and you
But babe I need to tell you
I'm only passing thru

You say I saved you from yourself
And perhaps it's true
But remember when I say
I'm only passing thru

It's gonna hit you 'cos you see
You'll need somebody new
You're gonna come to realise
I'm only passing thru

Passing thru, passing thru,
What I say is true
Babe did I tell you
I'm only passing thru

drought dry only a fortnight, and no trace
of the swimmers--not a bloated bass or a skeletal carp
only a few lily pads burnt russet by the sun

all else, perverse interlopers from modernity:  
bullet banged beer cans, truck tires,  
and the ubiquitous bottle water plastic
waiting patiently for the next ice age

no sign of one fish that emitted a last gilled gasp here

deep beneath the bed though
progenitors rest, theirs and ours,
antediluvian, Permian, as permanent as the word allows
my footfalls above them today
tomorrow silent where they lay