Revisionist Poetry – When A Dally Dillies, v.3

When a dally dillies

it’s quite common, or not,
for flowers to wilt
if the staring cow
curls its tongue and stares.

Too much, too soon —
even I crave boundary:
a rim of air, a measured tide
to keep my thoughts from spilling.

The boat cuts through the blue
and leaves a neat, astonished wake.

Finally,
clouds roll over me in friendly waves,
soft flags of weather, soft goodbyes.

Farewell, rational thought —
I learn to paddle with my eyes.