Motionless, like a painting broken
By a wren’s panic,
The wind watches
And waits

For the Earth to flutter somewhere.

It always does
Flutter
On its wobbling spin through space
And time.

Its fire within, alive
Like us,
Alive.
Devouring itself

As we devour its fare.

Oceans rise and fall
While my teacup sits
Still as the wind.