A year ago I was not this that I
Am now, no. Each new day passing forth marks
Not a journey in time alone. These forms
Of flesh and thought we know as ours belie
Their truth, with a gentle flowing change, thereby
Seeming a constant, but 'tis not so. Ways
Loved as part of life shift unseen. Yet cries
Of anguish rise from earnest lips to high
Places when we discern this fluid nature
And fearing a vaporous soul we dim
The view, and blindly hold to a caustic cure,
Wishful fantasy. To face our thoughts and trim
The base is hard, so very hard, though 'tis sure
A healing way, where firm efforts, may win.