Some people, in crisis or on cloud nine,
find in the commonplace a holy glow.
Beauty presides where all was in decline.
The gods whisper secrets from long ago.
Others, with furrowed brows and little mirth,
hustle and strive on everyday terrain,
deny the spirit for the fruits of earth
on the battlefield of loss and great gain.
I, seeking balance, choose the middle way,
navigate my ship through turbulent seas,
aim beyond squalls for a white sandy bay,
knowing each freak wave could rip into me.
Once my craft is built with firm foundations,
I listen to the wind’s incantations.