uncertain 
about returnings,
she ‘rounds the hill
again,
all the same, or
mostly similar,
at least.

the frigid veil cast upon
departure, last,
gets reclassified as
matter,
fades
back and away, either
earth
or
air, whatever.

though prophesized perpetual, the 
worry
strikes at the inside, from
within,
bleeding outward,
and doubt born inconceivables
become real, enough
so, the wonder
whether
that other celestial might have
taken hold,
festers, etc.

all 
for naught, though,
as
it seems
day breaks, as did
yester dawn, 
and will
for vast expanses 
either which 
way, in time.

might be,
the concern of impermanence is
for thee, narrator,
and not
for any of the other
cosmic bodies.