Casual conversation, no pressure words, just flitting birds and dogs chasing sticks, the wind and deflated squeaky toys. Time where seconds don’t matter so much as the moments spent fomenting a legacy of life well lived. Sitting in the quest of wisdom as the stars, planets and whimsy turn fanciful.

Gravity, now they want to disbelieve gravity. The most complex thought a youth possesses and they wish to twist it free from the mooring of God’s universe. How diverse is this curse that it seeks to banish the realms of stellar alignment and planetary frequency? Turning fantasy into flat soda.

Someone owns the wind, dirt and water such that children no longer rejoice at slinging mud at each other on rainy spring and summer days. Knuckle busting pry bars and sockets engineering my next cause and trying to solve complexity with rainbows, inclusion and chaos. It just don’t work that way.

So you say when you look through the window at just the right angle you can see the Sovereign Image of God’s Throne Room. Well that and a scoop of ice cream will certainly cool down this scratchy throat you’ve given me as I shout about poppies, puppies and political science with kids and old guys.

What is a damsel in distress if they planned the moment of salvation before they provoked the emotion that got you fighting, righting and kiting an astral run up the side of fox hill? Wag a tail, lose some mail, trim a sail so that the wind blows the smoke just enough to right every wrong, fix every untimely song and soothe old king Kong.

This is not my country they say its on its way, maybe by the end of May that will be the day. To rejoice in harmony with reason in and out of season with no regard to pleasin’ anyone but God. Some blossoms ripen in the seed, spiritual indeed they got us praying to box tops and ninety foot animals of bronze.

Settle for the silence. As complexions arise on this side of the moon I seldom seek the dark faces knowing the headaches that reside there. Alone is a vessel of deliverance to a setting sun, a victory imagined and world’s away from the normalcy that captures the definition of happiness drowning it in Salty seas.

I’ve got a Farmer’s chance of gold, the radiator’s cold and I feel a little old, so I’ll just avoid it. With orbits and parallax nothing is exactly as you’ve imagined it in your vision. The incision is deep, the wound a creative creep with margins penciling themselves on canvass to limit poetic license or bracket adjustment.

These things aren’t worth simply chatting over but demand to be planned and are risk to understand, especially for those with fear of mitigation. The hearts we left in lust, the dust upon the picture rewiring each fixture to depend on nothing, create realms without mass, divining a future while mad about the past.