Like solar flares, our thoughts, they zap and flit
And make us want to slot and clip
And organize to tale or song.
Then the through line,
The red line,
The bottom line,
They box us in,
And keep us rough,
And mean,
And quick.
Until we float above, and look,
And comprehend
The things we couldn't see,
The flares of others,
Bright,
And sharp.
Against the edge,
Occluded by our satellite,
Our blind spot,
But not all.
Their corona streams around
And slides and twists
To our perceiving eyes.
But only if we watch,
And wait,
Are still enough to see,
To act aright,
And love.