simplicity
is paradoxical
because of the
inherent complexities
ingrained deeply
complicating
what should be
so easy with the
anxieties of
certain uncertainty

the world is a
watercolor painted
by billions of hands
in a spellbinding
menagerie of images
just out of focus
except by the ones
that left the smear
avoiding interpretations
untinted by the
solipsism of self

the sparrows flit
and i whisper out to them
unknowing if it is
the cadence or
the words that bring
their fluffy bodies
closer to my car window
perhaps they carry
my love to the ocean
or forget at the first
sign of something shiny

all i can do is continue
spreading seeds
hoping for a harvest
as a billion others
do their very best
to survive another trip
around an indifferent sun
collecting the blossoms
to light up whatever
drab corner they occupy
in a serenade of
wildflowers dancing
in the morning breeze