Love

It occurred to me one Friday night
That love is not some script we write
Or a poem through which we can recite

What love might look like in our minds,
So neatly placed in stanzas and lines.
No such collection can ever define it.

And so you must forgive me, see,
For these last few lines that cannot be
Constrained within my poetry:

You know you're in love, not when you find someone who meets all your criteria for perfection, but when you meet someone who causes your whole definition of perfection to change.

Why Didn't the Robin Finish Crossing the Road?

Did his mother tell him, "Look both ways?"

I do not know and cannot say,

But if she did, he did not hear

For when he crossed it was not clear.

He was not very bright at all,

This bird who could not quite recall

What dangers lie along the street—
How cars aren't friendly when they meet your face.

But out he leaped, he would not yield,
And so he met my car's windshield
And maybe never flew again,
But I don't know what happened then,

For I drove off and did not wait
For him to gain his conscious state.
But this I learned from the episode:
Chickens are better at crossing the road.


If you ask me, birds kinda had it coming ever since one defecated on my face. See "Aw Crap" in the blog archive, posted on May 12, 2013.