the push for tomorrow
we are not in control:
Spring is fully upon the land,
trees indiscriminately spend their savings
on the pollen that lightly covers everything,
in the hope that an infinitesimal percentage will find the right host
and more of themselves will be here in the morrow,
insects crash the gate
and elbow their way everywhere around me,
on my legs, across my skin, onto my paper,
for this is their time,
and my reality is but a blank canvas
upon which they stumble, and they,
like the ubiquitous pollen,
spend enormous resources
so that the tomorrows to come include them,
today is of the quiet pervasive pollen
and of countless insects who we didn't invite to the party,
though I have to realize
that it's more their party than ours,
we are just uninvited guests,
maybe our value can be to chronicle the festivities.
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