If thinking a thing made it so,
what’s real or not don’t matter much;
and what you get solely depends
on what you tend to dwell upon.
Why think in black and white, and small? In case a
jealous god might find your dream, see red
and underneath a too cruel wheel
crush and throw big ideas in a waste barrow,
like shards of broken pottery, glazed
and beautiful, but too small to fool with,
thrown out in the torrential rain
to be buried under mud and water?
Don’t worry, I’m beside
you; no crazy gods inhabit the
world that can turn a brave heart white.
No one here but us chickens.
After William Carlos Williams’ “A Red Wheeelbarrow”
5 APR 2014