Simply playing with my bricks
makes no sense to me.
You insist that walking on them
will scuff your shoes,
and that if I understood your needs
I wouldn't push you.
You refuse to look at my sunshine,
complaining that it hurts your eyes,
that my sunrises come too early
and my sunsets are too sad.
If I loved you, you pout,
I wouldn't be so cruel to you.
My waters are calm;
you insist on wind to disturb them.
My fields are splashed with color;
you cry that the flowers aggravate your allergies.
My mountains are tall and airy;
you refuse to look up at them,
bitching that they give your neck a crick.
My moon shines bright and full at night;
you can't sleep with it, you say.
The days pass like blended chocolate,
like honey over oatmeal,
like the sweep of a broom over warm wooden floors.
But you see none of it.
Your life is spent in schedules and appointments,
in hurrying to hurry,
in keeping busy to keep busy.
He who claims idol hands are the Devil's workshop
receives a special award from him on arrival in Hell.
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Digital Art: Contemplation by yours truly
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