When I looked into my crystal ball,

casting a line out ahead of me

into the rippling waters of the future,

I saw a dense fog, locked boxes—

inaccessible things

 

There was little solace in these visions

no receipts nor guarantees

that things will turn out positively—

best to assume Death,

says the winding of a busy mind

 

In the evening, I watch the birds on the line

keeping an ear to the tunes

shuffling through headphones

for some good news—a paltry portent,

or a teensy, wee glimpse behind the veil

 

On the occasion, I am permitted a peek

just an inch in front of my nose

I can just make out the shape of things

And the faintest waft of freesia and jasmine

through fastened keyholes

 

I’ve grown more comfortable

with leaving well enough alone

until there’s a tug on the line

prompting me to again ask:

 

What’s next?