WINTER WET WOOD
A day strapped in too long;
a companion self to nothing.
I leave a lot to chance, in this
confiscation of a life; which
is how I see things now. With
everyone a captive to something,
there is nothing left.
-
The ladderback chair seems
here ready to topple, with
that big fellow sitting upon
it. He's eating some sort of
seeds, sunflower perhaps,
and spitting them out to the
wooden floor.
-
Even that little movement
wriggles the chair. I wonder
if he knows, or realizes - like
that pebble thrown in on one
side of the ocean that creates
a tsunami on the other, all
things eventuate, and he
too will soon enough be
on that floor?
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