Life seems suffused with dreary interludes, composed prosaically,
but in poems,
it flows like the tannic waters of a brook,
yielding, adapting, singing, swirling,
rounding the rough edges of odd shaped rocks.
This year; sharp, uneven, like jagged rocks,
and my way I learned, was to be liquid like water,
steeped with tannins of leafy experiences
long leached into the liquor distilled of life itself …
We were like a bewildered herd, stupefied with change,
wrought out of disasters brought upon ourselves,
self sabotaging as we are in a strangely cooperative human way
driven through a mutualism of mirrored self interests …
our solipsism evident yet in virtual existence.
And in the midst of the strangeness of circumstance,
we who lusted for worldly ways, found,
that time being money, wasn’t going according to plan.
Yet, where hearts and minds were clear still,
among them dreamers, poets, those charting manifest feeling,
such beings grew boldly amorphous.
Love, kindness, compassion, connection,
abstract nouns then, intransitive verbs now .
Perhaps they sing poems; those who care to see the world in colour,
in hues brightly vibrant, or even shades that may grow duller
Reality feels black or white, when guided not by the light of the sun
For who can see or love a rainbow if they can’t imagine one ……