Tuesday, February 22, 2005

One's best self. Such an elusive concept. What ought to be as opposed to what is. Because we do not care to admit what is. Or at least I don't. Phantasma and illusion. Sometimes I think that is the only truth there is. And morning is not the best time to be pontificating on the answer to life. And this just popped into my mailbox.

I could love you
as dry roots love rain.
I could hold you
as branches in the wind
brandish petals.
Forgive me for speaking so soon.

Let your heart look
on white sea spray
and be lonely.

Love is a fool star.

- Carl Sandburg