How else can night and day make sense 
if the weather doesn't enliven us? 
What else could give hope
of the end of things, 
of beginnings? 

Like a string of grey in your hair,
elements conspire to alter colors of things
to show progression 
for you, 
perhaps, of you.

smell new rains, 
hear new winds or
sounds of migrating things
sounds also reawaken forgotten stuff.
The kind you wish remained forgotten.

Progress is a stubborn perpetual déjà vu.
Vapor is growing thin, winds are coming.
Sneeze is our nose resisting incoming dust. 
I know
you have the nose for it
to tell of change in what's thought of you, 
to taste...

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