…and for a better world,
he peered through the window and into the cold,
seeing only the frozen blueness of the sky
and the thin brittle branches
of the barren tree that sits all icy winter
in the lot next door.
Like it, he now sits,
thinking about the spinning globe,
and the threads of fate that pull its inhabitants
this way and that way, to destinies unknown
and only revealed in the individual moment,
like the gold curtain of the sun
as it slowly drapes itself over one hill,
one plain,
at a time.
What is there to do
for the small things that live their lives upon
the warmth of a fleeting thing?
What is there for one to do,
but follow the ageless trumpeting of time
through the cold winters of the hour,
and pray that after the hard spell of frost breaks
one will rise as a full green bloom,
like the tree outside his window
when summer brings its love.