We crave the cobbling of days,
the ways that things unthrown
might add up to some pathway,
some intricate up. Some cup
more than half full. Runneth
over. We live in glass houses,
under glass ceilings, grass roofs
greener on a million other sides.
We mow. We know. We hide
our many selves behind time and
tide and the twisted masonry of
now. We build bridges of our sighs,
our whys, our wise men waiting.
Our wishes, want. Our whispered
haunted nothings. We pebble praise.
We raise one step at a time. Rise.
Prompted by Poetic Asides.