Silly games keep the day going smoothly
As the mind turns to mush and nothing can enter
Only the practice, practice, practice of words
Beyond words whose little picture seems to evade
The tiniest notion of description and thereby, understanding,
Yet tap, tap, tap, we do, we will to make an impression
Far beyond reason and with no more intention
Than one who snores in his sleep.
Yet the caper goes on, in and out like threads
Making a superior tapestry right now.
One that may become threadbare with age
With enough Light shone on it all
And greater genius at his disposal
But if it is enough to turn the tide toward security and hope,
For this I shall be glad.
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