are we held together by
whim, purpose, design, or
something else entirely?
I watch the sun light up the snow,
It’s touch melting though
In the shade of the understory
There is ice, gray layers thick with treachery.
I know it will melt as surely as the sun will rise
Tomorrow even with no direct caress
It is only a matter of time
Passing quietly, leaving no trace.
in the back of my mind
it is possible, even if improbable, for ice to linger,
to remain attached, a year, or five, or longer
by some whim, purpose, or design.
what else do I not understand?
I know a woman not quite
Four score years
Her face alight with marks made
By Venus, by the Sun itself
Her eyes marked by mercurial wings.
Thoughts such as mine pass swiftly in
One ear and out the other,
The only thing she holds onto
Throwing reciprocity to the wind (and howling wolves)
whether this is by whim, purpose, design
or something else entirely it is
enough to light up the world.