Dry Leaves in March

That the organism,
Constantly in motion
Itself, should perceive change

To be continuous
Motion seems natural,
But that it also sees

Some change as just being,
Instantaneously,
There, is a little weird.

The explanation is
That the change was too fast,
Or possibly too slow,

Something out of the range
Of the organism’s
Senses and synapses.

We’re not organisms,
But as words, we think not.
Physical perception

Of motion or stillness
Is just arbitrary,
A secret confession

Of the phenomenal
World that there is no point
At which both are not true,

That the two—the sameness,
Or, if you like, likeness,
And the change—can be found

Always in an embrace
At every scale, the great
Constraining the little

Which composes the great.
The seamlessness of change
Hides a sameness all seams.

Dry leaves tumbled along,
Frozen at every swerve,
Ice swerving inside them.