Yesterday

All your money

won’t another minute

buy.

Dust in the wind.

All we are is

dust in the wind.

—Kansas

We were never-ever

dust

but quenching

rain.

Never in the

wind—

rather the benignity

of breeze.

And we could

have never known

that we were seed. Not the

receptacles  

of such.

Flip tomorrow

for today.

Tell me how it

differs. It’s some-

how yesterday.

No, not McCartney’s

regretful ode. This

isn’t ’65.

But perhaps it truly

is. Maybe I’m still a

toddler

in the garden. The brush

of moth

beside me. The backyard

dirt

sieving

through my fingers

as a prayer,

pretending it is water

and we thirst.

Andreas Gripp

July 3, 2025

photo of Andreas, 1965