Wayward
Now she's here
and now she's there,
flittering and flying
through the hours in a day,
laughing now, then crying.
Her moods are fleeting,
they grasp her in a flash
then just as fast they fizzle
like a firework in the rain.
Would that she were constant
like the moon,
self-directed, self-assured,
without a care,
but she is wayward,
ever flickering,
fluttering,
floundering,
more there than anywhere.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2016
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