There are the regular times
Of peace:
Morning
When I wake up before the world
And catch it
Just sitting there
Not going anywhere.
And bedtime
When I finally give it all up
And stop Running.
It’s in between
That the going gets to me –
Doing doing doing
One thing after another
Always on deadline
Seeking some
Ephemeral
Impossible
Completion.
Then
Once in a while
Sanity hits me
And I walk
In the evening
To the end of town
And sit on a bench
And just look
While the sun goes down.
There are the valley oaks
Their brown trunks
Wearing gold brocade
The magpies flouncing
And scolding
Flaring their flamboyant tails
From tree to tree
And the Moon
Almost round
But not quite
Like a ball of white
Potter’s clay
In the fumbling hands
Of some genius
Still learning
To make the world
Then God feeds me
Placing the unfinished Moon
Perfect in its imperfection
Just there
On the blue plate of the sky
Between the sprigs of tree-parsley
A feast to quiet
The heart.
