When Whittling Perfection

Small shavings appear,

rarest wood

splinters the air.

A misstep

bristles choler.

“Noticias malas” alarming

in the midst of my calm.

I am with tea,

balmy breeze,

beveled brain

and its fervor _

reassuring “la Luna”

in her fullest —

Her finest Hour.


I am a clandestine shadow wondering if this is the best time to break through the shell and expose those inward calculations, theories, and resolutions.  I am a carving or whittling of self out of earth and element.

I am an alien from another reality visiting a dying civilization, pondering a ray of hope.



















Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s