Approaching life's
midpoint, you more or less think
you get it:
not everything that shines reflects
the guileless light
of purpose;
and most of the things
you can fit
in your hands
were not placed there
expressly for you to use
to your benefit.
But still, you find it difficult
to prevent yourself
from believing
that the moon
(which sometimes looks simply
delicious from down here)
is the ripe fruit
of heaven's prize
infinity tree,
hung in plain view
for you to pluck
with your fingers—or that
the fathomless pain
whose full textures and tastes
were lost on you way back when
will someday
come back with its
hat in its hand,
as if it owes you an apology
for helping most of this
make sense.
