66/365

not much to rage against these days:
the machine feels quiet and non-threatening
the dying of the light still years away.

the hush of middle-aged
security and privilege
feels like false fodder
for anything consequential.

but, why is the folklore
so burdened with affliction?

why can’t the new bloom
of the bougainvillea be enough?
the turn of the pot
the pruning of dead branches
the tiny green leaves
pullulating with impetus.

the faintest changes
on a placid surface
can cause perpetual ripples

if i knew the way
i would take you home,
or so the song
has been saying
since before i was born.