Cool morning

I vowed that i would not use this as a template for poetry, but in waiting for the group to leave for Niagara falls i found that a few hours of solitary idleness have yielded a bit of self indulgence. Too much coffee and old cigarettes that i fished from the ashtray (my own) must make me more inclined to believe that others might care to hear my mind, or perhaps i am just trying to make it so that my posts are equal to the number of days in my stay. So after a failed letter to Dad, which i will not be sending and after a couple hours reading, only interrupted for a bit of rye bread smeared with plum jam and Brie (i think 90% of my calories have come from brie over last few days, yesterday, for example, my only food included Brie and guava past and raw cabbage, which would be no concern to anyone if they new the store of food i had accumulated the night before). so here is a silly bit of poetry that i must say recalls the sensation of sitting in front of south branch waiting for dad to finish making breakfast before a long morning of successful fishing (though, if this weren't a day dream, it would likely be unsuccessful)

To a soft-summer breeze, I concede my tribulations with vernal admiration,
taking stock of rustling leaves playfully exchanging conversation.
The ardent heat quietly rests while my sentiments fall to pleasantries.

This morning be my minor gift, handed stubbornly by chance, and, at last,
it has seized my notice out of simple tranquility.

I imagine to venture from this spot to graze grass between my tender feet
must be the finest of sensations, as one resigned to barren land
stumbles onto an oasis.

This morning's light bears with its gentle supplications, however, some forboding
and a reminder, like a mother's whisper, that it shall not always be so calm.

The struggle is lowly, and it is hardly fair that such a rare gift of life
is accompanied by a persistent struggle that god or who ever holds my destiny
is not yet prepared to release me from the eminent difficulties i will soon endure

For everyday has become so:
A struggle o see that the world needs change, as divine as it seems;
The mystery becomes how i am best designed to perform my duty within it;
most of it awaits my perception, i concede, and in knowledge of the great debt
I do owe and my own vast ignorance, i may venture forth into it, remembering
the stirring gifts laid before me, appreciating the delusion and mourning those
who see it less