Morph

Morph

In quiet streets where cobblestones recall
the steps of centuries, a shadow bends,
it shifts like mist that drifts across the wall,
and wears the faces that the moment lends.

A seed uncurls to leaf, then bursts to bloom,
a caterpillar folds, then spreads its wing,
the river carves its bed, dispels the gloom,
and stone, once rigid, learns to softly sing.

We too are clay, our thoughts in constant flow,
each breath a whisper that remoulds the core,
the self we wear is never fixed, but slow
to morph, to echo what we've lived before.

So let us welcome change, the gentle twist,
for in the morph we find our truest bliss.