Reality, like ocean waves,
depends on factors both deep and shallow,
but mostly upon sufficient amplitude,
there must be enough “there” to be there.
Or is reality just a place we agree upon?
I sometimes forget the world and all its seas of foggy words,
preferring the immaculate clarity of things that say what they are,
burrows, furrows, swells, buds, suckers, shoots….
As for reality, now I think it is like grass,
hungry blades of desire pushing up into the light.
Tangled versions of the truth
keep popping up like roses in the weeds.
The story may be worn out from telling,
already dying on the breeze, still, it is all an invitation,
to walk among the young succulent grasses, the daring buds.
the slight, pleasant wavering of the air,
to be the whisper of presence,
at the intersection of the recent past with the soon to come.