I love watching the seasons here,
The sycamores in fall,
The sakura in spring,
The colors that mark the passing of everything.

When I first came to wander here,
I stole a leaf for my own
As big as my hands in green and brown
And patterned all in home.

I pinned it to my door
For one long lonely year
And drew upon my wall
The sunset I had left.

Before I found my way back under
Those boughs of paisley gold,
I’d sail half a world away
And work and wait and grow.

By several hundred days and nights,
Flowers bloomed and missed,
But in full season’s time I would
Return to meet alone.

And these fine days we spent together,
In warmth, or rain, or snow,
Breathing in our 1%
As the sun’s rays dusky glowed...

Now again the seasons turn,
We cannot hope to stay
Where once the light of purpose
Has faded clear away.

Though it offers little comfort
And we cannot see the port,
We set our eyes to sea
And prepare to take our leave.

I dearly love the seasons here,
I will remember them from afar
And call to girls beneath fallen petals
who never dreamed they would part.

A modern-day Emily:
Recluse,
Eternal stranger.

Walk many streets
But
Recognized nowhere.

Preference for shadow,
Freedom
To dis-exist;

What’s not
Seen
Is rarely missed.

But the
Overlooked
Have sharpest claws

To grasp the
Secrets
Thought insignificant by all.

I’ve heard it said that people
always do what they most want.

It may seem hard to figure,
but consider the grand end-point:

Whatever is most cared about will motivate the rest,
and even an act that seems unpleasant will have its root in this.

So how then when one chooses strife,
declares their own opposition,

claiming trust would never work
and conflict was long predicted?

It means, at heart, that discord was itself the object
and the self-sympathy of being denied the long-desired project.

Don’t puzzle after why you are blamed by one you tried to save
when the nature of his character is building glory from invented pain.

He who basks in passion over his own victimhood
will create the grounds for trauma to sustain frail self-belief

lest whispers of that ceaseless fear creep through the blank old stare
and the mind that rings begin to sound of the responsibility echoing there.

Just leave.

Where are we now?
Take a look out the window
And tell me what you see.

Are there rivers and streams,
Hills and houses
Built by people with dreams?

Do you want to try
Finding that place
After our feet have touched the ground?

Do you think if we walked
For 2,000 days
We’d understand what we’d found?

This confusion of people
All pushing and thinking
And trying to find something true;

If we spoke to them all
Do you think we’d learn
Or just become more blue?

Oh, where are we now,
Where have we come to,
I wish you could tell me that.

Is it anyplace better than
The one that we left
Or haven’t we been here before?

I could swear I’ve heard
These words in days past,
For power and progress and proof,

Discard compassion
and elect reason only,
It will lead to prosperity’s truth.

But for all these years,
Humanity’s fears,
We’ve never managed the simplest:

To put aside focus
on excellence and pride
And choose to live contented,

To create our work
Not for prizes that rust
But for the value of creation intrinsic.

To recognize
the light in our eyes
is not in truth the brightest,

And even if it really were,
It would be nothing
Without someone to sight it.

We’re stronger by far
if we join hands
Than the most brilliant who would divide us.

Where are we now?
Are we moving at all?
Are we always caught between sides?

Between those who want speed
And those who want fairness
And those who ignore out of pride.

Is it possible
To make them care—
To tug their hearts into motion?

Or is the theme
Of equality’s dream
Another stone in the ocean?

We’ll gaze back at it
Through history’s waters
Now and then as all other ideas

And wonder how
such thoughts began and
how they journeyed on.

Unless, of course,
you choose to stand
And change the scales by one.

The weight of history
Is odd in that way,
Sometimes a grain of sand

Is lost amidst
a breathing desert
And never tumbles free.

But, other times,
One grain displaced
Can tip the whole company,

Or fall into
such a place
That it rubs great engines raw,

Creating heat
With one small presence
That breaks convention’s law.

Note well,
It’s not by exception
This grain achieves its cause,

Just by placing
One valuable common
Into action instead of pause.

Where are we now?
Have we gotten any closer
To finding where we stand?

Give the window a scrub
With the edge of your hand
And see if it comes clear,

See if you can spot
A path for us
In all the ages down there.

If not, I guess
We’ll have to keep
Relying on our feet,

Placing one
before the other
Without much certainty.

Opening our eyes
To each new day
To try to recorrect

The thoughts
We thought yesterday,
Which now we redirect,

Holding tight
to what seems true
And seeking better values,

The way to live,
The way to feel,
A reason to give respect to others,

And simply how
To endure a day,
before we rest forever.