I get exactly what I want, I guess,
as long as I desire what’s around.
The fog I bank upon to blanket stress
and comfort me, is outside to be found.
There’s nothing rare in 61 degrees.
We march in March as likely under storm
as sun, as often chill-refreshed by breeze
as lulled to nap by California warm.

I covet the available. I set
my sight with gratitude on what I see.
I pray for rain in winter and forget
all rainbow ends about prosperity,
all leaping fantasy. Pragmatic dreams
are my intent – divining what life means.