Yesterday

All your money

won’t another minute

buy.

Dust in the wind.

All we are is

dust in the wind.

—Kansas

We never should have

deemed ourselves as dust.

Quenching rain, perchance.

And never in the

wind—

but the benignity

of breeze.

I’ve had the chance to grasp

that we are seed

as well as bloom.

Gifted in a pistil

from the flight of

savvy wings.

Transpose

our next tomorrow

for today. Tell me how it

differs. It’s some-

how yesterday.

No, not McCartney’s

rueing ode. This

isn’t ’65.

But maybe that is

plausible.

A miracle in mist.

The blear from

dampened eyes.

Perhaps I’m still that

toddler

in the garden. The brush

of moth

beside me. The backyard

soil

sieving

through my fingers

as a prayer;

pretending it is

water

& you thirst.

Andreas Gripp

July 3/4, 2025

photo of Andreas, 1965