Does it matter?

Does it matter, what
we think, or want, or
even do? In terms of
any plan life may have
for us, or are we just
like puppets on a stage,
with lines written, set
in time and stone, with
string being pulled by
something else, to make
us move in certain ways,
at certain times? Does
any of it really matter
beyond how we feel on
this stage called life,
and even then, does it
really matter and how
can we know what matters
and what does not, or
if the truth is that
everything matters and
nothing matters in that
paradox of existence?

Summer

Creep of warmth at dawn,
sucking away the last of a
cool night, huddling under
the rise of bright sun, so do

Summer days begin, and
wait, in slow heartbeats of
rising temperature; sodden
in their promise of a raging

day, where curtains will be
pulled to imprison darkness,
holding at bay the bright,
white, light from a burning

beating, brutal solar master;
as the hours pass in quiet
reflection, and dreams drift
on soothing, cool breezes.

Summer in the great South
Land, where huge wastes
of desert, reflect in pitiless
constancy, the searing heat.

https://dversepoets.com/2019/07/30/hot-time-in-ye-ole-pub-tonight/#comment-175068