If perfect was the word we would not be waiting.
If it was this world nor would we be swaying…
But if hurt was our daily bread
Would we have soaked,
In that fiery sunset?
Yet it inhabits our homes,
Weaving the baskets of our minds,
Dancing the steps of our lives.
Holding our souls with the satisfaction
that comes with ownership.
Cradling patiently our bruised ego
Teaching us the wisdom of our ephemeral journey.
We glean, gather, stocking it in neat piles
going on, in hesitant faltering steps.
Sun scorched, hail or rain,
Hoping to trick an old parchment,
Letters seared in its thick skin…
Having seen many alike
Wishing a trail filled with
Butterflies & vanishing ambushes…
Reality is a harsh teacher for joy & hurt intermingle.
They are the dough we roll, fashioning our spirit.
Perfect was never the word.
In this world.