Mutability Poem

My own face reflected
in the well of a now-empty mug:
indistinct, eye, nose, cheeks.

Mouth, chin: like the moon
in a silent motion picture.
The ice in the waterbutt

is a sliced-open onion.
The clouds are a continual traffic.
The earth under your feet

will eventually become the earth over your head.
That's called mutability. The moon knows it.
No more fluid in that well.