RENEGADE RIDER

Is it luck, karma, the occasional scrub beneath finger nails?

Just out on the porch is a potted geranium enjoying morning sun. It lives

On the after-death experience of composted leaves.

That's some heavy soil, nourished in periodic urination.

Now that the category is dialed in, imagine the Secret Life of Plants, implicate quantum musings, and dark matter

Looking out the window of Santa Clara's Library towards that statue in the park.

A pigeon looking down upon all creation from its white spattered perch.

Mind wanders into the nowhere dimension

Of bronze sculptured hats and cultured lawns.

How can nothing go up in smoke like the fire on Bear Creek Road?

Dreams and subconscious designations like a mirror with a lottery ticket

Try to intervene, pull strings, yank emotions and ridicule the obvious

Almost universally unseen, even as eyes are secondary.

None of that matters.

There will be no book on the shelves that comes anywhere close.

It's not a white spattered bronze hat

Either.

And I, for one, enjoy weeding

Entering the secret life

Finding roots

There are so many seeds anyhow

And so, suddenly

I cross luck off the list . . .