Come Back No More

It's a different me now, no

rest from alterations more and more 

increasing – not at all by my will,

nor yet against it. This is the journey, the

way that we all grow, more wild

than we know, tossed by an invisible wind

which we ignore, imagining that

it's we who tilt the glass for the sand that passes.

The first young grasses can't return,

fine and fresh; they are long fronds now, no

way back to a before all gone, no more....
Blown onward unknowing, nevermore we return.

Written for the "No More" Sunday Mini-Challenge at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. The form is the Golden Shovel, based on the closing lines of Watching the Needle Boats at San Sabba by James Joyce: 'No more will the wild wind that passes / Return, no more return'.