I am not a duck

Sorting and untangling others' feelings

by colour, by texture, by sound

can be somewhat satisfying

But they don't stop

and frustration begins to set in with the unending task

bringing a sense of order to this mat of chaos

all snarled up around me

and if I turn my back the knots return

like they're on purpose

I look around and wonder if the colours of the earth

are the thoughts of God

and if so, how He somehow can take a disorderly tangle

the composting layers of a slough for example

and make it beautiful, without any sense of numeracy

no sequencing

no thinning

no culling

no alphabetical order

each duck a poem of happy

amphibious possibility

I think that the colours around me

seen and felt

are all spread out from the thoughts of God

so I suppose ordering them is silly

I should rather swim under, over, fly through them

and notice the reflections skating on the surface of the pond

as an upside down postcard from the sky

Still, my brow is furrowed lots of times

I am not a duck.