Future-Me, a fan of irony,
Enjoys the reruns of a Present comedy
Starring Me, self-confident with sobriety,
Lamenting the stupidity of Past-Me.
Look , but be totally still.
Three dark ants navigate through
a maze of August-dried needles
without an apparent purposeful goal
to the eyes of the old woman watching.
They say it’s a solid but snowflakes melt in our hands
They say it’s abstract but hope embodies a face we can see
If gravity is really an immutable law, then how do ideas
rain up toward creative connections?
Let’s not be too clever to never unlearn
knowledge currently grounded as fact.
Poetry challenge: Limerick.