If there was a better way
a better time, place, mood,
world- I did not know about it.
For what is each new second but
an opportunity to learn of past failures
the river card reveals that you would have won
a poker hand long since folded.
The dike breaks, say,
and all the past flows
takes us all in its current
If all that came before was still-wet clay
to be moulded by our present selves
would we ever stop tinkering?
A masterpiece exists because the painter
stepped back and refused to add
one more brushstroke.
What I could have said
it’s best to let statues stand as they are.
Droplets, eerily clear
fall soundlessly into the moss
each seedling quivers
imposing clouds break to
welcome a cheerful sun
calling for new life.
Cold does not see class.
Nor race, religion –
Where you come from,
where you are now
and where you plan to go in the future.
Cold is egalitarian.
Cold is just.
When the trees wake up in a panic
wondering where their rust-hued hair
has gone –
side by side
with the children, waddling penguins in their parkas
as the school bus is late again.
It sees the past as
at best, a quaint reminder –
perhaps one to keep in a model town
for the schoolchildren to shuffle through
on a dreary Tuesday morning.
Each day – more intense.
Grown turgid; more people
with more expectations-
dreams, fears, grim realizations
all draped with a chatter as seven
billion and counting try to find
someone amidst everyone
Frost-haired men in high-buckled trousers
sitting at a well-worn diner booth, while the Earth hums
in a note they’ve long since ceased to hear.
The planned obsolescence complete,
they have become living fossils of a time
one can’t be bothered to remember.
The grass, lilting amidst speckled sun and steady breeze;
Laughs and puts forth its vibrant color for the world to see;
Amidst the knotted trees whiling away their closing years;
Children of the melting snow, knowing only ever-brightening days;
Each blade knows not the history, the joy, the tragedy;
That fields long dead were witness to;
Covered in petals, spring snows, the checkered picnic blanket;
The bare feet of men new to this world;
And the boots of a dying man, laid to rest with his bayonet;
Oaks sag with the weight of history, and;
Gaze upon the young grass that will soon wither;
As a thousand fields have done before their arching branches;
It is best to leave them to their play;