Thinking tender flares of introspection,
knowing worlds of wordy length,
brings me full ‘round
to the start of
histories fictitious ways.

Proving nothing as I huff
and try to puff
some great meaning into life,
gives no pleasure,
no quantum's measure,
just a bit of air’s disgust.

Chuffing harder, worries barter
with my mind’s
full acquiesce,
seems to harbor
sharks to ward for
life’s unfeeling dalliance.

“Still”, I ponder, as I hunger,
“high and low do mean the same
in the circle of the mystery
as to life’s unseemly change,
I will measure,
love to treasure,
any thought I feel I gain.”

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 8/6/02