Constrained and released
by the natural,
and encompassed by leafy shade
on that same path that was made
for us long before our feet grew sore from walking it.

I am, at times, an unwilling congregant
at the spectacle of the world,
to the incessant voices
crying advantage and foul
and observing the obvious.

And I loathe the sound of my own voice too
when I succumb to certainty.
What certainty?
Certainty that might be, might be only
the horrid heat of my binary disposition.

“Eternally true and so, perhaps, eternally not true.”

These thoughts, I have come to think,
finally and confusedly, are
nothing.

Nothing more than the white butterflies
that pass by the screen door
on mornings when I should be working,
but am instead working to broker a peace
between myself and the world…
Aware that the broken screen door is
the only thing
.        that separates us.

-Bront Davis