Have we missed much?
None shall twist us from purpose.
Play like porpoise…
At home in clear waters, under sun on sand…
Bathing beauties eclipse previous yearning.
Oh how different…
Yet it is what it was
and still is love.
I shan’t assault pages with despite.
How dare I occlude this light?
There are many more humans to interact with,
for them and I.
I won’t seek distractions from tilling soil of mind.
There are distinct seasons.
And in each I am fine.
All is fodder for pen.
Clouds languish in light wind,
taking their sweet time passing.
I won’t be bitter if they decide to rain.