In real life,
As I know it,
The dots don’t always connect.
Flung across the sky,
Scattered in the field,
Their seeming randomness
Lacks pattern,
Denies substance.
I watch as you
Frantically pull
Them into place,
Lining up the stars
And dust into
Long lines
And spiraling
Curlicues,
Organized
And sequential.
What if you relinquished
Your illusion
Of control,
Letting them drift
Into rhythmic
Connections
And webs,
Finding your place
Within,
Rather than
Controlling from
Without?
Categories: Poetry