If there’s sense to be made it’s to be made
from the loose changes rattling around my pocket.
The lint of the day floats quietly to the end
of the windowsill, the panes and frame all white
and chipping, a rope tethers from the side—
if there’s sense to be made it’s to be made
by this old pulley, by the open window and
by the fan which takes the hour’s moldings and frees
the lint of the day which floats quietly to the end
where a horizon waits, its own tether, its own
barometer of the earth’s pressure, the philosophy
of sense to be made that is to be made
with flowers, lots of them, planted or self-
germinating, bee-touched or butterfly-worthy, carrying
the lint of the day and floating quietly to the end
of the island where it takes hold on the fleece
of goldenrod, the last stop before escape to the sea.
If there’s sense to be made, it’s to be made
by the lint of the day that floats quietly toward the end.
Image Credits: Photo courtesy of Shutterstock