Nature herself
must sit back
in stunned wonder
at the matchless
abundance of her own
careless laughter,
for what, then,
is each cankered
stem, denuded flower,
and growling,
distended stomach
that's out there
but a perfect-
pitch, no-expense-
spared advertisement
for the gambler
in her who feels
most free to be
both cocksure
and so very
daredevil-aimless—
free
as an unswerving
driver playing chicken,
as a giddily-
obscure jazz
musician might be—
for how much
security must she
lust to forsake
in order to keep
fumbling, yet feeling
the full breadth
of all that abandon
as creativity,
as freedom?
