I forget all that I thought
lost to reason like a flight of birds
and cornered in my fancy of this word or that.
I think my posture has written a few
when I’m slunk like a folded pillow
into the creases of my seat, a lonely
heartbeat and a keyboard.
Strike a match in front of my eyes
so that I can see a trembling beauty
and sort through the raptures of
aural symphony available to me.
But hark another sirens call, so much
to see and get lost in antiquity. And books
with their subtle sights and leering looks
I can do without those too.
I thought I had found my best again
like a child I wondered why I was able
to write this poem at last after all that
sinks earthward bound like snow.
Perhaps I will never really know
what makes things move and go
upwards like a bird or float gently
down to earth like snow.
Does it matter to the mad hatter
how his garden grows? As long
there is someone to pour, and talk to
who could want for more?