Classic Poem

My shoelaces come untied.
In harvest October when our ears ring sharply.
in the spaces between the daily round of chores
my shoelaces come untied.
The current of life
is not these motley writings, but
rushes like an overflowing spring.
Beneath the heavens
some things become
clouds,
other things become
stones.
In this eternity of pure color in harvest October
however much I live completion never comes.
My shoelaces come untied.
Some
from the stones
become monuments.
Some
from the monuments
become stones.