She is a crone,
a flowing vapor,
an invisible river--
Too fast? Too slow?
What she is? I don't know.

...but I'm caught in her tow
and must go with the change
perpetually to grow in age
sands through a glass
either gold dust or waste

A tree of possibility
her leaves transform seasonally
to fertilize the hope of summer dreams

A personal providence?
Or a bad joke of chance?
Directed? or drifting?
Does she emanate from living?
Or life from her?

She calls me to decide
if I will ride or hide
...One thing is for sure,
Her...