acquaintances grow and
then
        they
                fall.
but a reunion makes losing
worth
           finding
                        after all.

the wind has caught up to us once again,
billowing around the spinnaker
as she dips the helm ten degrees starboard.
we've reached six knots,
a nautical dilemma when the cat's paws
signal the departure of a strong gust.
she rides the wind-waves,
a natural captain, she is,
as we continue on home.

we run against the grain,
we test time outside its frame,
we risk the impossible to the extreme,
we question life, what does it mean?

independently,
we can all grow together
as the willow's hair.

we all strive for perfection.
be it the perfect life, perfect wife, or just perfectly out of strife.
perfection in itself, is imperfect.
for in order to be flawless,
one must never skip a beat.
or give that vegan such innocent meat.
perfection has no regrets, no trial and error.
just trial and success.
how often can any of us say we have bested our best,
only to find that test and all the rest were but a jest.
we've all been made fools,
some even used as tools in a greater plan.
nobody is perfect or flawless.
even jerks can become jaw-less
when karma completes its cycle.
some keep their shields up.
i've laid mine on the floor.
you might dare to taunt me,
even flaunt your skills galore.
i laugh, you scoff,
i perform and you're off.
those who guard what's underneath
are still chasing perfection, they will not bequeath
the honor and glory of a more perfect story
than their own.
they seize the throne through force
while i am appointed as time runs its course.
honestly speaking, perfection is dead.
i perfectly love imperfection, unique from toe to head.

that first day of summer has come,
the longest of all with no choice but to run.
for it runs from the east, chasing its own shadow,
on westward where travelers admit the challenges are not shallow...
by any means.
that first day of summer has come,
yet so quickly it leaves us, bewildered and stunned.
the moonshine reveals we must wait a year, somehow,
to again root for the day to finish its longest marathon and dip below...
be patient, serene.
that first day of summer has come,
patience aside, we've waited all our lives to fire the gun.
pull the trigger, move to alaska, complete a task worth wiping sweat from the brow.
from metaphor to metaphors, we sit. it's not yet time, yet the time is now.
we wait for chance to give the king a queen,
we wait to see that day still yet to be seen.

but why, oh angel,
why do i lack the courage
to say buongiorno?