Wind was a god, creating, destroying, moving
upon the water. Each moonlit ripple held
its universes, impermanent reflections
appearing, dissipating, into night.
What infinite worlds shine and die before us,
what bits and pieces of reality?
All fades; dark seas of entropy lie calm
once more and what could be has been. Remember
the wind. Remember what you can, and sleep.
Stephen Brooke ©2016
This started out as a very, very different poem, of which only a few words remain.