Interruptions

The earth recognizes the potholes on the perfectly measured asphalt roads as natural. What is odd about a sudden dip that bends into the depth, Or trails on and on for miles Requiring an uneven gait Over the breaks and cracks on man-made construction that only ever covers the real ones? The mountain is not meant to be skipped over like loose sand on the coastline. The river is not to be left to chance like the pond that can be returned to, stagnant. The clouds do not reflect the same in a brook the way they look on the surface of the sea.

Water.

Mud.

Sand.

Sky.

They flow over the rude outpourings of hot tar, over black liquid that burns the hot sand into communion with men’s greedy intentions. They smoothen the jutting ambitions They trim the overflowing transgressions They filter juxtaposition And destroy the impeccable city scape So cars tilt over Men trip into And rain draws boats into Puddles of water Into potholes Into interruptions Hoping to make man aware Of Earth’s original form, Her curves, ridges, bends, and turns.