We fold into the wind
We are the salt & sun we’ve absorbed
But we do not grow
Basics of tasting
Palates of blues & citrus candy
Burnt into crystalline entries
An arrangement of stones
The constellations on my back
Weigh little – elliptical allusions
The ebb & flow of my confidence.
And my confidantes:
Weak as our strangest link.
Our laughs and loves
Great wines and deep hurts
All held in escrow by
An institution which draws little interest
But which suffers perpetual withdrawals.
I’ve created this little world.
What obligations are here to maintain it?
To sustain its law & order –
To not move on as the world in which
I was created finds itself
Short on the upkeep by its creator?
Image by Wordle.net
