I shouldn’t belittle anyone in the face of this lifelong frustrated

contending with a universe that stands just above my eyeline;

I can see the top, the bald head and brown spots of age,

and it’s a big wonder about all the mysteries of the cosmos

coming from a handful of rules providing physical governance–

nothing too much of anything there,

I shouldn’t dwell on the movements of planets and stars, or

the swaying of thoughts in those easily swayed–

In abundance, of abundance, a garden sweetly smells

like wild apples and green coated river rushing,

solitude enveloped in brights of orange and yellow for the bees,

blooming milkweed for the monarch,

a stone path cut through the middle and

the garden ought not ever end.

There then, or to ask, where did everything come from?

Ridiculous.

We came from our mothers!