This is where my interests lie.
This is why life passes by.
This is the thing that enthralls.
This is my persistent call.
To figure out the song and verse.
To watch it play and then reverse.
To see it tidy as a day,
That always starts a certain way.
With cornered sheets and fluffy head.
The order of a well-made bed.
Perhaps the last tidy thing,
That any given day would bring.
And too, it is, also the last,
Thing I see when day is passed.
May I see, and may I try,
Before the day passes me by.
Maybe a pattern or a clue.
Maybe a promise or a rue.
Maybe a word or a meaning,
Of something more than a seeming.
Something there beneath the nose,
That comes to being in a prose.
That somehow finds its way to thought,
To become will without an ought.
To see the way it might connect,
As the cause to an effect.
May the dream become the real,
Before my fate has been revealed.
Through graying hair, I run the comb.
All by myself, but not alone,
In this ploy, in this endeavor,
That seems to capture me whenever.
Another day, another try,
Another night to wonder why.
And I return to that bed,
To let a dream and fluffy head.
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