The Ways of Change

More
than
gravel
scratches feet
on the roughened road.
I'm jolted by the ruts that dried
hard in the week-old mud, and reach for new-laid patches
of cold cement, a smoothness unforeseen as yet, where tar and pebbles blend to plaster
what we thought to be our next concourse. We hunger for
a place of solace, soft and green
not cast in concrete
by the tracks
and fads
of
time