A Plea for Love
What would happen if I let my hair go gray, and then left the beaches with their summer palms, to drive back to some city where the songbirds are mute and the trees drop their color right before the frozen rains, when everything becomes winter? And what would happen if I let go of order? Where is it chaos would lead me? (Chaos being God of course.) I wish to be done with perfection. Gray hair is nothing but a privilege. It comes at no cost with the gift of years and does not preclude one’s ability to touch their toes, or even better, to make love. Oh how helpless I am to do anything which doesn’t want to be done! There are too many holes to fill, which are forever wanting to be holes. (This poem is a plea for love.)
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