Morning Glory

I come across an old note

Lying around in my head

That says something on the line



Of "all stories are fiction,

Especially the true ones,"

And I have to ask myself



What the hell I thought I meant,

And why can't I get beyond

Repeating these sorts of thoughts



As if they were insights, when

They're really more like small walls

I keeping bumping into, or



The insurmountable crest 

Of the hill that blocks my way

From going any farther



Every morning as I stroll

Up sidewalks with my daughter

Past banks of drooping flowers



Dropping late-summer petals

Under the great trees that tell

No tales I have to believe.