This is not familiar.

This ground upon which I have graced
and spun drama
to placate the self and its itches
has grown dry.

No longer does the brook sing to me
in its ceaseless fawning...
it is quiet patches of grass
strewn about like gravestones.

The wooded perch where a falcon
sat to whistle danger in my ear
is a husk cradling pinecones
that couldn’t find the ground,
and my eyes know not doubt
nor reprobation.

but the clouds
are the same.