I used to wish I could slow the summer change of a field. If I stayed there longer than usual, I could perhaps savor that mark of time, and this in turn, would be my great rebellion against inexorability.
But if that really happened, I would never know the course of what we are given and ultimately lose. It's really there to help us understand what matters, if we ever do.
Even though I miss dandelions, it is certain that daisies, queen ant's[sic] lace and buckhorn growing harmoniously at the foot of a long-abandoned coal refuse pile is just as fine to reckon -- as is, anticipation.
* * *
Styles change forever, and the
"sea, on the tide..."