[ With thanks, too, to Nic S. and Dave Bonta for this… ]
How long does hunger hold? Or joy
forestalled? I know that hunger climbs
the trunk of the tree, persistent at its task.
If only each open cup, each well
of blossom had drink enough to douse
that flame— If only the moth that scrolled
its richly tattered cape across
the bark had a mouth; if only its four
half-moons were radiant feast,
enough to settle my restless songs.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.