The rain is eighteen inches or so on the porch
edge. By my calculus of rainfall, a light one
last night. Is there never a calculus in our
attempt to understand what we see and feel
and think? Dreams, off-hand prophecies,
the Freudian slips of life. We collect and sift
the collected and discarded elements of our lives
in hope to see a pattern, a proof of life lived.
We are all artist trying to make the pieces fit
or better yet see where they have fitted in
but not without a sense of wonder
of how now came to be now
by what we’ve done, what was done and
how the two now seem as one.
-Byron Hoot
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