You throw down the pieces
of puzzle without thinking
& they all fall a certain way:
hands, attitudes, eyes, dreams.
Moira–it is useless
to explain such configuration
where no instructions
are ever given.
The way these two lovers fit
defies a marketing manager’s will
or secret game plan.
(Call this nature or a hunch.)
You could always separate them, I suppose,
but they’d always look too hungry
as if they belonged together
in some crazy autumn under the trees.
How wrong be they who try
to rend them–these pleasing shapes
that tease us today with
their promise of forever.
Pictures on boxlids and finished puzzles
seldom look the same.
But in their construction what joy
and desire, as fated,
the necessary pieces converge!
(note: Moira is a Greek word for fate.)
…………………………………………………………………………..
A poem, ironically, about how there are sometimes no choices. That’s just the way it is. That is how things are meant to be. All that is possible is for things to flow and happen; nothing anyone can do–even others–will prevent what seems fated to be from occurring. The assertion of process over choice.