between here and there sits a tv
offering the kingdoms of the world
paraded in a numbing mix of half-truths,
frivolity and gore

just beyond,
a wall stained with the steady yellowing of time.
an unsteady arc in the novice-troweled plaster
that says, 'this will be our home'

in the very back of my garden, hidden from everyday affairs and pending disasters, there stands a letting-go tree.

it's fruit ripens with every pulled weed and each reflective moment in the cool spring rain.

Note to self: Each day's work, viewed within the whole, is a single step in an elaborate dance. The step need not be any more productive or complex than what occurs naturally. Both complexity and precision follow a smooth whole that advances, ebbs and flows, at it's own pace.

What is perfection?
Is the forest perfect? It's floor infected with decay, half-lives and restarts?
Or is it just a hastily drawn sketch of some perfect ideal?