characters

i treasure characters:
the joy of eccentricity and
the quirks of unique beauty.
the saffron-robed, shoeless monk
in yorkshire november.
i always remember him
and his echoed reflection.
pete the feet and in turn
a lion-maned one
casting the cloak of
the image in rejection.
their rejection of comfort inspires
and souls reside on the other side
of the thin blue line.
they are questionners.
characters as questionners.
they wander freely as clouds,
through tree-tops
without clocks or any awareness of time,
and a 'character' would share
the tree's stance in politics,
'but you're not a tree, man,' i whined,
missing the point entirely, of course,
in my defensive subjective projection
of another's perceived dejection.