if the windshield counted raindrops
still, the rain wouldn't lumber.

it'd continue on uncounted
though countable in number.

and if all the grays could be split
into whites, greens, other colors that fit

into the scheme of what makes beauty,
would love then be an adventure or a duty?

instead, in the current mass of matter
we stumble, fall flat and smatter

upon the sidewalk of life's trek
gouging, poking trying to correct

our ways of love presented as lust;
failing still in the measure of trust.

05/02/2005