Motion
Summer rain doesn’t move me
like it used to.
I hold out my palm,
watch
as it pools in the depression;
it is only water, nothing more.
The moon tears a path across the sky,
swallowing stars and planets alike.
I am unmoved
in the presence of such magnificence.
It is not nature that moves me,
but the simplest of machinery.
Time moves like a clock because we deem it so.
In the presence of such magnificence
I swallow stars,
cry summer rain;
time tears a path across the sky.