Odds

Against all odds I live to breath-in the daylight that filters through dark curtains. The green plant (grown from seed) is still sleeping. I forgot what kind it is, it has no name but against all odds it flourishes in a dream-like way. In a dormant room a laptop is singing quietly to itself. in a distant land paws pitter patter over moonbeams. Stretching out my crooked frame I once again see the odds are good enough to join all those other nameless beings who populate my life with ink and echoes. Dormice scurry around brown teapots. Jackdaws caw and whistle looking for something to steal while we, the innominate, are not looking.