Stained Glass

through stained glass, peering

shades and hues that shift like the wind;

seemingly arbitrary directions to us,

mathematically precise according to

barometric laws,

pressurized systems of neural connections,

more complicated than Freudian hydraulics,

simpler than an fMRI scan

would have us believe.

the greens sometimes seem greener

when the sun shines brighter,

yet the lake feels warmer

after a cold rain

in a realm where logical formulas break down,

only keeping relevance insofar as they are applied

in perfectly appropriate fashion,

impossible when applied by imperfect creatures

trying to navigate the ocean,

trying in vain to predict the currents of the wind

Creation

that I might have the audacity to dream again,

something a man said about the audacity of hope

still echoes in my head,

something that the people embraced

but didn’t run too far with

perhaps it was just a seed

cast into the wind,

to land on either fertile soil

or solid rock,

a fate up to the currents of the air

that I might again give form to the formless,

mold from thoughts

something that can be heard, seen, felt,

even if when cast into the wind

it ends up being a pebble

flung into the ocean

at least I’d make a ripple,

at least I’d move matter,

at least I’d do something that could not otherwise

have been done

that I might find the will to create

again