Wild winds blow,
Steadfast and forceful,
The sun stands still
All the while, despite
Green grass and
Branch-bent trees.
The warmth is stronger
Than gusts, unlike us
Fickle living things

I will fall in time,
     Into oceans and
   Into dust and
You will fall in space
     Into lakes and
   Into earth and
We will be different
We will be similar.

Neither of us will survive
The sun's burial,
Content with such, since
Funerals - not for me;
Fickle and ****** we may be,
But lived and loved (Yes!) have we.