margin is not
a blizzard of words
obfuscating page’s landscape
with directionally-challenged winds
margin is not
some narcissistic lover
manipulating poor gas-lit partner
into unconditional surrender
margin is not
an adrenaline addict
over-crowding calendar squares
with meaningless engagements
margin is not
an anxious mind
fretting over fearful rhetoric
contrary to obvious truth
margin is not
a malnourished soul
scrolling electronic junkfood
with no appetite for beauty
margin is spacious living and gracious loving .
a poem in my pocket 