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Not so patiently, really,
and with some trepidation,
I watch the pages turn.
When it was new, the opened book lay lopsided,
all its pages piled on the right.
Then the wind of life blew in.
Riffling up the paper sheet by sheet
it turned leaves to the left
before my still-innocent gaze.
One day I noticed
how very many pages had blown by:
I was well past the middle of the book.
Oh me, oh my!
Time to take it seriously, I thought.
But even before I had buckled down
to that task of being serious
more pages flew from right to left
forcing me to acknowledge
my lack of agency here:
this turning of pages was none of my doing.
And now just moments later,
or so it seems,
the right-hand pile has dwindled
to just these few remaining pages.
The book is almost finished.
Why does the wind blow in one direction only?
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