What right have I to be this happy now?
Lying long beneath this world
With all its stones and trees and wind and sky
To speak to friends and know that they, that I,
Still live despite the odds
Of nothingness and no love found
No tiny echoes of a liking that just grew
To be a life of one and all and things and stairs
(And maybe gardens too)
And the intricacies we carry with us through the world.
Till it is done, and we are gone and we can say for what it's worth for what it's worth, we're gone.
The very slowness and impatience of a cloudy nothing day is part and parcel of the wonder of it all.
Petrified of wider deeper words, we plod.
I like to ask the questions in my lines:
Open up a vein eternal to explore
That may prove lucrative
In words and looks and feelings. Maybe more.
The look that touches and bewilders and restrains
But then gives in to open up a door.
And maybe more.