My place in all this

What is my place in all this?

Books, trees, sunlight, puddles of rain. . . together, alone.

What patterns are there? What opportunities, what hopes.

I thought I had some answers, I had none.

Now I can see the blossom on the tree outside my window, a few gulls circling lazily above. Cars pass several stories below.

Wind pushes the clouds hurriedly across the sky, white blots on the blue. I type.

There is dust on my windowsill. This is better than nothing.


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