The world
       is not the way I want it;
it is the way it is.
Better at talking than doing,
I am at a loss for words.
The weather mocks us
in this season of derision.

Even the man with the most gold
can not quell the storm,
but what is gold to poets?
We write our own stories
from versions of younger selves
tinged with wisdom
of many bruises.

We tend our pens and pages
while the garden grows. God
looks out for babies and fools.
In a pause from our creations
we study the colors and breathe
the air of summer, filling our lungs
with poems that will bloom
when winter is upon us.

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