Whither?

I am not pack material
In brown boxes
Stuffed late into the night.
I am not which book, video,
Third grade paper, wind up toy
Or wired cable.
I am the blades of grass
On the new mowed lawn
I am the ripple of bark
Under the silver side
Of wind-blown apple leaves
As the unrippened apples wait
Not for me, but to fall
Into the next man's hands.
I am at peace, I am still;
In the midst of move,
Unmoved.