Shall I describe the things I can’t control?
The feelings of another (or my own),
the politics of anywhere, the roll
of clouds against the sky, my shattered phone.
I cannot make the planets move apart
or change one angry driver’s attitude
or modify my daughter’s broken heart,
eliminate unfairness or intrude
upon another’s dream. I can’t appease
or catalogue my awesome impotence,
for any hint of power is a tease,
a wisp of gossamer, a pale pretense.
I’m only given me to oversee:
controlling self with soft humility.