All of science can not explain,
Though it tries mightily,
The off beats of the human heart,
The perfume of a baby’s breath.

If it could take the common patterns:
The steaming coffee, the floss, the sunbeam’s
Streaking cross a window not lately washed.
Take it to task, demand an answer,

Our fate would be assured.

We could live in personal nirvanas,
Trading cards like kids flipping
Baseball legends,
Romping through Elysian Fields
Of Periwinkle.

But, no.
Hypotheses don’t calculate.
Theorems don’t sway reality.
Our time leaks out or dances gaily,
We decide
And that’s the fun of it.

Charlene James
Amissville, Virginia