Roses are red, violets are blue,
Our sweet little dream group
Just touched something new.
Jenna lugged boxes,
creation and art
discovered a cul de sac
next to her heart
She fired a wood stove
and then a great pit, cause
the fires that ravage do
gift us the grit.
And the house she inhabits
has curious walls, are they inside
or outside? The key tells it all.
Then Bruce with temerity
shared yet a dream, about
music, Obama, his usual thing.
But after the sharing
he flapped his old jaws
And failed to remember
That sweet pregnant pause.
Barry got gritchy
and felt disrespected,
that Bruce shared his
midrash: that was unexpected!
And everyone chimed
in with robust opinions
hundreds of folks, why
there must have been minyons.
And though there was tension
and awkwardness reined,
we all did acknowledge that
something was gained,
by speaking more bluntly
we broke through the trap
of walking on eggshells near
words like “that’s crap!”
So the Spectors and Jenna and
both Bruce and Jay, had a strong
revelation that mid-august day
that a group’s rite of passage
is not being nice, but daring to
juggle both fire and ice.
So roses are red and we
all took a look, and saw that
All Truth is about Jenna’s book.
