WHAT IS MINE
The cloud of snow slept in the tree overnight and poured from the branches with the morning breezes. Showers of crystal, dropping from a clear daylight sky, are telltales of intentions delayed. What was meant for moon time has been kept till sunshine, a treat for bright eyes and young hearts. How can I weep over altered destinations? Arrivals and departures are truly within the province of poetry and postcards, not things for worry or fretting. Putty is for forming into an image of my desire not the world. Time is a liquid substance I cannot decant at my will. Shoulds and oughts are parlor games for the bored and senseless. If I waste my life playing a game I can’t win I will fail to see what I can’t lose.
Work with someone who works.
Pretty girls seem to live by separate rules,
but I don’t know why.
The world is filled with people and rules,
crazy circumstances and the uniformity of exception.
The where and what for, of arbitrary allowance
to be regulated based on symmetry or fashion
strikes me as odd, beyond survival
and this may explain so very much.
Gravity pulls down equally; discriminates for nothing.
Orbital rotation continues in spite of the fairness of an eye.
The universe supports us without end
but prejudice is our failing
and I blame it on the pretty girls