A Riddle Poem by Patti Masterman

The only constant
Never ceases or rests
Takes away the familiar
Puts askew memories
Rearranges the trees hair
Plants mismatched flowers in the fields
Tears down abodes a twig at a time
Patient as the earth is old:
It can lift up a mountain range, in a millenium
It can scoop out a hollow, swallow entire civilizations
In just a few more.

On breezy days, a million voices keening
The same lullaby that sings us to sleep,
Is the noise of capricious demolitions in the forest
The noise of a sea coast being spirited away in the night
Great cathedrals being excavated beneath us
Oceans ever rising and falling like a cosmic stock market
And there is even time left over
For playing musical chairs with clouds
And tickling laughing children
Who still think they can run away from it.