Clouds stretch across the sky;
below, water stretches an equal distance.
At the edge of the water is grass –
and at the edge of the grass is desert.
Orchids open in the sunlight,
but cease to exist
when the air is bare of hospitality,
white winter spirits flying by.
The many tangles of one’s hair
could so easily be gone
with the simple snip of a scissor.
The bits and pieces dead
and littering the floor.
But would it be cruel to remove
such an imperfect feature?
To end it like the passion
in a child’s eyes after they play and laugh and tumble
I have to make a choice.
To end this and start anew
or stay in the comfortable