There’s a place

not quite my own

where observing eyes

realize

wondrous things not so wonderful

as many pass on by

A row of books

older than I

or a leaf floating

in blustery winds

blown down to cracked pavement

no longer visited

I walk on past

into a past

not appreciated

A place more than just a place

a future of falling helicopter seeds

that will never grow

in the asphalt earth.

Hours spent there

wasted or waiting

worshiping the wind

in the nonexistent

wondrous moment.