Not everything is socially constructed.
Gravity isn’t racist: we are all pulled down.
The clouds form and the clouds pass,
casting their giant shadows,
I don’t care what you say,
and when the rain falls it falls on everyone.
Luke Skywalker is an old man now,
haggard and gray—
we weren’t expecting this—it can’t be true—
and he is forever the beautiful boy,
looking out at the setting suns,
the wind ruffling his sandy hair.
He is both.
This is the adventure we are all called to.
The homeless man in the parking lot
asks me what time it is.
I don’t believe in time anymore,
and now I’m always late.