I pull away every now and then,
when the world’s too hot, too bright,
too bitter; too cold, too merciless
in its inconstancy. Too rough, too
callused, too grainy, too stubborn
to answer the hand that pulls
at its ends and begs it heed. See
the ease with which the robin finds
a bright green morsel to spirit
out of the woods? Above the treeline
it flies, little beak a caret marking where
some buoyancy or joy’s gone missing.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.