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The Seventh of August
poems from the north, day 4
The clarity of another blossom
drops off the rose of Sharon into obscurity.
Circular debates resume about prosperity and luck,
or is it fate which deciphers weather as conversation.
Vanes of distraction shift silent winds
when thicker than what we can currently slice.
Next year will be the same and never. I’ll speak less
riddles and run barefoot over concrete fire.
That and the sun may yet catch
the moon’s tail before dawn’s judgment.
Eventually, loops of life’s cord will
overlap or kismet blooms.
Perhaps they’re one and the same, depending
on how tightly a belt is cinched.
Life happens when clocks stop fighting
for minutes and let the gears decide.
If you’d like to follow my vacation journey, there’s more below:
