Fated

How will it start,
with the toss of a coin
into the pond of destiny,
reflecting against the blue-green
background of summer?

Consider, then,
against the order
in which chess pieces
move as old hands
clinch in anticipation
not knowing God's next move
(because I am me
and I think against
what is to be).

Perhaps, lost
like a kid in a jungle
slicing at the over-grown grass
with a rusty dagger
I will find that lacy black hair
running away from me in her smooth-flowing dress
chasing a black and yellow butterfly
like a beautiful white dot
in a sea of green
moving gracefully
to the song of a
hummingbird on a tree.

The last of the dream
dissolves, coffee powder in hot water,
strange that it stops,
controlled by hands,
human destiny wrought by human
doings,
always there in the heart,
this thought of you,
alas the phone is off,
the quill wrests outside the envelope
in the corner atop a clandestine
desk,
and you,
how it begins,
is never true,
is it a dream, then, or is
it made to end like this,
slightly corrected this human hand?