I admit to dreaming, creations and re-creations,
life as art, as gardens,
as sailing craft on vast waters,
love, appropriate and otherwise,
dark dreams some days, dreams of light
on others, a constant mingling of real and hope,
a stuffing of demons deep in the earth
to create a different kind of compost,
fertile and rich, the kind only survival
and restoration can create,
Beauty out of manure.
Do not ask me how it works.
I know there is science and psychologists enough
out there to make sense of it.
I am not interested. I prefer magic.
I prefer to leave the details to God
and wallow in the frangrance of roses
in the midst of distant seas.
About this poem.
Not everyone uses poetry as a guide to life, I do sometimes.
We worry too much about the details. About the “cursed hows” of life. More often that not however, if we see life through a lens of beauty, the “cursed hows” seem to take care of themselves. It’s not what we do that needs to change. It’s our lens.