Start with edges, straight lines of reason
terminating in sharp, 90 degree corners.
But there are too many corners, the edges blur,
and the scene shifts from white clouds on pale blue to stars on velvet indigo.
Pieces of life can be treacherous.
They do not interlock securely.
Knobs wear down, pockets grow holes,
and the shiny, thin veneer lifts at the edges, exposes the dull grey beneath.
The original box is long gone and with it the picture
of what this life should look like.
Only fragmentary hints of overlapping true colours, larger truths,
and persistent trial and error will ever get this thing finished.
And what then? A window? A mirror?
A slowing fading postcard crying “Wish you were here” ?
I think I shall spend less time straining to find the big picture,
and more time enjoying the potential of the little pieces.