A Pome a Day for a Year

Niagra Falls tumbles and churns and I am
covered in frozen vapour, as icicles form
like tubes of glass, around bare worn branches
of trees older than I will ever be.

This miasma carries me; I am a king of old
sat within a throne of thought
and I stare. I stare at water cycling and spinning
and crashing against gravity far far away.

The water caresses my awareness of time
it passes silently, but forcefully
and soon I have been transfixed for hours,
my ears ringing red, my cares quashed.

I am but one,
and I am none,
but there are some,
of which I am sum,
who trust the sun shall shine.