In the Face of Change

and when the sun lingers on the snow

and the moon instates itself over the dark horizon;

when the trees reach, grasping; when the wind curls in on itself, pleading 

when a raging stream wears at stiff pavement 

the world asks-- “who am I?” 

and it pleads, though the world has never pled before

it lingers, as thunder rolls and and stone walls crumble

just to hear its own voice echoed back; 

for the world has only known its own existence 

and there is no answer to the question but the singularity of everything 

but it raises its voice anyway,

because there was no other thing to do

because even the world is not inevitable.