I shall speak the wind that moves you;
I relent with every breath
the things that bind you to my vision —
all for love. What I have said
I shall release in expiration,
simply pray — and nothing else
till you shall rise to the occasion,
speak the wind in choices blown.
But whence the Rustler’s source is hidden,
unto each of us — unknown.
The precious maybes in my peripheral, they linger,
but when I twitch they ever blink away.
Made mad by my own future, I must retreat,
be cradled by each day as it comes.
‘Tis no defeat to hold the present day in high esteem.
‘Tis no defeat to listen to the people
as they dream.
The precious maybes’ hopeful wings throw shadows
o’er my waking world.
All is only as it should be when my vision,
not impaired by dreams that may or may not be,
from the corners of my round eyes sees
the past to be beheld,
the future to be near,
but the present to be here.
Written January 2013, Emma Dumitra. Image from agricultureproud.com.