The storm comes, pulled by something
beyond its control.
The tree grows, though it doesn't even know
The lion keeps its cubs close, it has no word
Life is a tearing apart, then a binding together,
broken dishes and holding hands,
out on a limb and hiding behind a bush.
Floral gifts fool you. Wrong turns lead you.
A blank face is no face at all.
It's a balancing act,
take your pick, one toe or two feet.
You know happiness,
the indefinable condition you think you want
can be achieved,
concentrate, concentrate, concentrate
by letting go,
relax the shoulders, the mind, find the soul.
From the ladder, to the mountain, to the sky so purple and pink,
you finally stop to blink.
Creativity needs flaws or you're just a technician.
A touch of madness is a gift.
Most wouldn't know what to do with it. You must have
no one to check up on you.
Chickweed in the garden is a problem the whole town
is having, not just you.
Animals say nothing when they suffer, they go off
on their own, hide behind a rock, lick themselves.
You've had it good, makes you wonder, what
you're gonna get when it all comes home.
You celebrate your birthday, but what
about your death day ?
The wind just blows and blows, the rain
comes down and down.
You always have a splendid supply of candles.
If you become mellow enough will you rot ?
The expressionless face as seen from the outside,
is only a face,
evoking what ?