Spreading It Around

I’m full this morning.

Full of it, maybe.

Writing, spewing, covering it all.

Over the rest, the best, the real.

Challenging, channeling, choosing

The right or the left,

It doesn’t really matter right now.

Can you choose, do you?

What is real for you?

Is there a truth, that means

Something to you?

What is truth? What is you?

My truth comes naturally,

Sometimes artificially,

Sometimes broken into

Little tiny pieces,

Like water, flowing through

My greedy hands.

Sometimes, I cannot grab it.

Sometimes, I cannot hold it,

I cannot keep it for myself.

I can only watch it, briefly,

As it falls from the sky,

Like so much rain,

Running down my face and body,

As I stand outside,

Without an umbrella.

Sometimes, it is like snow.

I catch it in my hand for a moment,

And, just as soon as I notice

What it looks like,

The beauty, the miracle of it,

It melts into my hand.

So, try to capture it,

But it will elude you.

Comment away,

Till you and your captive audience

Are nauseous from it.

Spread it around,

Like so much manure

On a garden, in desperate hope

That it will blossom.

After all, that’s what we do.

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