As I look at the volume a life contains;
Whitman had a lot of words.
He seemed to have saved them all.
All the thoughts flown into his head,
Recorded.

And what of them?

Looking at me through the lens of time,
What has passed between now and then?

The details of the Manhattan skyline.
Have changed.

But not the tidal flow.

We tread the same paths 
over and over again.

Trying to find the weft and wend.
Our place here
In the now
That never seems to end.