On difficult days I ask…
Is it a dream, this milky sleepwalk from the sea?
I used to believe in the reality of it all.
But now in half-light the evidence begins to thin,
the way a word loses its substance when repeated too often.
The shabby edges and uneven seams
are indications of poor craft, lackluster pride, amateur magic,
a back lot ghost town of cheap façade and braces.
On optimistic days…
My chest is full of hope, full of believing in saving grace.
As the Earth spins and tumbles around the sun
the dark side of the moon is an enticing mystery
where all the secrets of the universe are safely stored.
The world is a place with clear sharp lines
that run off into the distance or circle back, perfect formulas,
the kind of geometric precision that inspires confidence.
On most days…
I hope for the grace of providence.
A loose confidence in the power of chance prevails.
A loose confidence in the power of prayer is needed.
I so want to believe in the power of teleology,
for both the day and the universe.
I so want to believe in the power of decision,
in the power of action, the power of creation.
Instead I take solace in a loose confidence
in the power of good to give order to another day,
in the power of yet another day to make sense of it all.