We know the tricks of wind, yet
remain defenseless against
it’s wielding wand of madness,
meager effort to patch the wounds
each time, with awe and sorrow,
as if it were our fate. No way to curve
it before the damage. Only E.T. can do?
Hopeful it’s not a trite fantasy,
someday we’ll get there.
With unfinished project in the dust,
we welcome new waves,
dabble with odd possibility.
Some scars imbue the light into
our confused souls,
at the edge of the days
we glow with green,
enjoy more of our differences.
©By Byung A. Fallgren