So much of life is propping of splintered boards against entropy
holding up what should fall,
reclaimed by instinct and nature.
It is a human condition to stay the wind, rain and the pitting of sand
hoping for polish
when the apparent is weathering and imbued character.
Even out of the fog, love is only felt and intangible,
a guilt of chance and loneliness,
born to grow to quiet sharing and support,
as an apology of nature might occasionally bloom
to cover the eventual.