“We” are potential energy,
A book poised at the edge of its case,
An icicle dripping to join its kin piled
In the sloppy snow seven feet below.
Sometimes, in the night, i’ll doubt and liken it
More to the crate of eggs, sitting precariously
On the back of some travelling merchants cart
Bound to fall, cracking in naïve inexperience
And even then the local birds would be fed,
The pasty shells ground down by the passerby
Who’d criticize as they walked, to pass the time,
That such a crate should have been properly secured.
Then, on those optimistic field trips into the forest of
Myself, I feel differently; that such is more like
A pair of sparrows, separate but dancing, alight in
A mountaintop field of grain, idle hikers
Marveling at our playfulness at such heights.
It is these thoughts that I prefer, as my
Insides don’t feel very yokey, nor my feelings
Brittle like those cream spotted egg shells.
