Wasn’t certain of much in this life.
Was certain of Death, but not certain of Love.
“I’m certain” I’d whisper atoning for sins,
perpetually seeking what’s alas non-existent.

Was certain of feeling entitled to living,
of sensing the texture of branches in winter;
of crisp April air, being humble and little.

Uncertain I was of the blooming of Wisdom,
uncertain of friendships, distress of affections.
Uncertain I was of the path I was leading
and if I would finish it correctly, completely.

But certainty wanes when compared to the gusts
of Time.  Soul remains, body ceases.