My stuffing is strewn o'er the field
I am a tattered scarecrow
Flattened by life's whirlwinds
What to do?
All is open and possible
Yet I am numb to my choices
Face planted in the muds of
others' circumstances
Can't see horizon.
Must gather my dry straw reeds
Hem my ragged shirt
Sew back on my half button nose
And straighten my crooked neck
Scan the terrain.
Chasms of unknown
Meet gentle meadows of
yellow orange butterflies
I must avoid the rough roads
Need to transform.
Fly as seedling over rugged sharp edges
Swerve around the rusted metal tines
Skip the rotten forgotten harvests
That poison us into seclusion
Sprout soul wings.
Rise above others' quarrels
Cheap tries at pale domination
Breathe clear air above their
Potholes
Is it possible?
No predictions equal
fewer disappointments
Let the current carry
An honest allowance for
Survival.