Churning butter, but whatever i do, it is not part of a plan,
Whether it is a kiss, a blow of air, a myriad of expression,
or just the simple and always as old the same,
This, it is not a game.
That i play with you,
However staged the world may be,
I try to keep it straight when it comes to me,
and what i do and do not do,
Can leave me from me a bit estranged,
and i can't deny feeling a little crazed,
but in a way with good intent,
Bent on care and not any hidden resent,
So count it as a windfall, or a pleasant summer rain,
Say it is for no other reason than breaking up the monotony,
But do take a task, and do it well,
let your breast swell for the effort expended,
grow a garden, some herbs, keep it tended,
Supercede what it means to be you,
let me forget me,
and dream as lazily, as the MS river does in the hazy heat of summertime,
Find a divine spring, not in me, and in it drink,
run the brink of your sanity, and go beyond farther,
And further feel the music of the spheres,
the dance and play of everything.
What can't be described, inscribe it into yourself.
This, to move on, is not my lesson given,
but it is the only one fit to by example teach.

four poems in about one hour