Changing

Something’s coming.
Struggle to keep arms
a vise around known,
shattering now like clay pots.

Wasn’t much.
What was here seemed
to be all that
could be had.

Shards of fallow hope do cut.
Yet they are familiar, welcome,
not this formless new,
an unpredictable impending.

Spark burns resistance.
No place for bits and bleeding
where change seizes
territory once withering.

No more.
There is another way
through blind leaping.
Sore heart soars.