The world I held today
was like a snow globe in my hands,
confined by naught
but frigid glass
and my imagination.
I saw between red cheeks
a window to the world as it is:
the goodness my fantasies neglect,
the good bad that is really here
and the bad good we pretend.
Maybe it’s okay
that the world is as it is
with its potholes and paper cuts.
Maybe the lines on our fingers
become a maze with an end,
when your fingers cling to mine
and mine to yours.
Written March 2012, Emma Dumitra.
Image from urbanghostsmedia.com. A pothole garden by Steve Wheen.