The white hot truth is no truth at all,
save the passionate conviction that a thing
is real to one, and little can convince
a person of its opposite, though minds
are opening all around me these days,
lovely multicolored parachutes wafting
down out of the ethers like the piñon jays
emerging out of the thinnest blue skies
to settle into their morning feed;

Still, the universe is replete with paradox,
as we are understanding more and deeper
than before, and many realize black is
not white, nor is it black as once thought,
both contain spectrums one discovers when mixing paint on canvas, prussian blue here, ochre there, yet combine them and they both yield to shades of grey, having that in common anyway, separation being a manufactured myth;

And so I am careful these days, shaking
out former certainties like musty sheets
hung on the line in a fresh spring breeze,
relieving them of the staleness of sitting
in storage too long, needing to air out
and purge misconceptions, often based
on facts fed me in my youth, and some
certitudes ought to be questioned, need to
be reexamined from time to time,
don't you think?

Santa Fe springtime - bj