In the spat ball of tumbleweed, I am indeed contrary.
To the worry black of wonderment, I am war and woe, or wretched,
even when I shape to parallel, permit proceedings.
I can contradict, compare, confuse, or be complacent.
In the heart of love, I will pierce the matter, peruse, and parachute.
I am the atom, the spinning energy, infinite, that once clinched between fingers, will explode into air a sparkle-dust of more atoms,
or kisses, or hugs, or the stars, or sleeping;
or sitting quietly, silently, listening.