it must be the wind, mocking me and my potted plants;
growing sideways to placate the forces not seen, yet
at work all around.

the turbulence is only superficial, for the pool bottom
feels not the tug of the wind, nor the roots of plants;
my soul runs deep in silent prayers.

turn one more page in Kierkegaard to leap to a question,
not of faith but more to comfirmation of the faith i have.
solace found between sodden and solemn.

i am one hand clapping, a chorus of one note, yet still a
cat waltzing on a suspension bridge. unaware of the swaying
winds affecting Sri Lanka.

pleased with my lot, i venture forth as golfers speak of
clubs and irons; the last hole shot, and should they lay-up
for their next lie?

11/23/2012

Posted on 11/23/2012
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