Clouds scud across an aquamarine sky, bullied by westerlies, unsure of their destination, but determined to get there. And here below
my stationary stance
seems insignificant to the grandeur of heavenly motion; and even
my sure stance
is planted on a revolving world in its wild orbital trek. So it seems I am nothing much in the large scheme of things—and even this thinking part, a futile exercise for one so small,
so temporary.
Would I have more peace if I didn’t think
and just let this moment pass unmolested by a prying mind that seeks purpose and certainty in a war zone where beauty and design seek fragile balance to malevolence’s dark designs?
Might it not be better to go to oblivion oblivious, than wrestle with the mess of you unwinding my carnal threads to use in your grand tapestry. I have to wonder at a love so big…
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Apronhead 