Rainy Morning Rhymes

You either float and whizz and flit away –
or flump – a clump of mud – and stay:
your moods, dim-colored lenses, skew the view
you wish would burgeon up as “you” –

you stoke the fond delusion you can see
and choose exactly what to be:
but too much reflex chatter crowds the voice –
what’s left to claim as conscious choice?

Perhaps it doesn’t really matter when
or if you “get it” – now, or then –
or settle into something with the gloss
of certainty – beyond all loss –

but wouldn’t it be lovely, once, to know
what to embrace, what to forgo –
dream a moral compass up: pursue it! –
more: to really want to do it?

Well, you suppose you do – or do you not?
It’s hard to stick to any spot –
as if you’re tugged by – soul and brain –
the ruthless wantonness of rain.

.