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Out of Reach

is the last day I will lie here on the couch
awake at noon only to stretch languidly and then return
to the blessed safety of sleep
is the last day I will gaze over the carpet
and allow the television to coax me into ordering
yet another Amazing Pasta Maker over the phone

Some days we are the seed
bright and turmoiled inside a protective case
waiting for the chance to explode into being and prove ourselves
Some days we are the bud
cautiously peeping out
wondering if it's safe yet
if the world is ready for us yet
Some days we are the flower
catching the sun on our faces and feeling it travel down
course through our souls in golden arcs of beauty
swim through our roots in search of a deeper meaning
Some days we are the wilted stalk
drooping over the edge of the vase in final resignation
despair tipped with bitterness and hunger

And Pan dances mockingly in the meadow,
piping tunes of what we can never know.

22 July 2000