Here's another poem that I wrote a couple Sundays ago. It's a bit different, but I like it.
In June
In June, when sun comes down,
and things actually g(r)o(w) right,
I like to watch the world around me,
a little "intimation of immortality."
People do as they will without worry:
School's out, and so is responsibility.
Everything is easy;
Freedom fills our eyes.
The outside is better than the inside,
for once,
if not for often or ever.
Trying is burdensome;
Real worries comfortably flee;
For what is the sun,
but the bringer of light,
the essence of warmth,
and the softener of sensitivity?
All this for good is taken,
and while it may be so,
yet seasons change,
and sun hides away.
Overcast days bring despair,
Longing and wishing,
Hoping,
for opportunities
to give up cares once more...
Primitive is our ignorance,
our circular psyche,
our limbo.
Though days of brightness
and darkness abound,
and seesaw us up and down,
nevertheless,
sun never ceases:
the light is found in the finding.
