Midnight Poet Strikes Again, 1
Where to look? Not where I’m told.
Where hope and dreams and possibilities of bold
Showed me it was time well spent
To step aside and let their parade march down.
My life was on the other side of town.
And so they veered, and I stayed home.
My sampler’s maxims left intact,
A stormy ocean white with foam
Expecting me to make a pact
With waves that swell and toss me under
And from my brother torn asunder.
I choose instead, my backyard stream.
Wisdom gleaned from predictable flow
Knowing where it wants to go.
Moving forward, to bigger things, sure.
But kept so focused, simple, and pure:
I can’t help but float and listen to its wise babble.