I want to believe in a more beautiful future.
Oh, you think I’m foolish? Foolishness is the counterweight to seriousness.
Like a cool breath of wind on a pot of hot tea.
Chaos tempers tension. Whimsy tempers nerves.
We’re squatting in the garden. We’re piling up onions in the greenhouse,
long tendrils, fresh smell, dry newspaper, old boxes.
Will you put up a picture? Will they know who I was?
Depth of mystery, won’t you speak to me? I carry you with me, always.
And I remember sneaking upstairs to the room where the old organ lulled
in the corner by the window, years of dust in the keys,
and it still played.
And also piles of big pointed brushes
which A-ma used to write
in slick black strokes
on thick rich paper
Heck, I have had one or two of those big brushes, myself,
but my hand was always unsteady and illiterate
and children are given water, not ink.
Prolific Rambler 