Dull

I feel pathetic
poor and covetous
surrounded by affluence
and the freedom it affords.

Pressing my nose against the window
standing empty on the outside
wallowing beyond desire –
bleak and inadequate, ponderously paltry…

I senselessly strive to be legitimate
in the face of self satisfaction
wanting to be generous
with only immateriality to offer…

I’m usurped, inconsequential,
mourning elusive connection now evaporated
a gaping morass of listless purpose
where I was once so sharp.

Happiness seems a mere equivocation
nefariously full of excuses –
born of spiritual strength
but not rooted in frozen earth.

So tired of arguing against it,
I’m philosophically short of change
penned in, trapped, mired
in an endless round of futility.

And even being thin and orderly
oh dream of dreams
won’t fix this:
I’ve worn off my point for everyone else.

But then, a thoughtful someone
just brought me these strawberries
crimson, plump, and remarkably sweet
and I realize it’s spring, somewhere.

And the drab tediousness
is lifted, subtly, but significantly sanguine
by a simple small fruit, a little gracious gesture
and honest hope is honed, once again.

Polly Castor
February 12, 2010