what is wonder but knowledge of that
which we could not ever anticipate?
Light slants toward the west—
its passing brilliance sears
the eyes and leaves us often
breathless— as if for the first time,
every time. And do we know more now
than we did yesterday, or less?
The birds come back to search
for seed cached in the wintry soil:
under the eaves, in groves
of roughened trees— They’ve never
learned; or they are wiser, trusting
they will find their portion.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- After Apocalypse
- Déjà vu
- Dear Life,
- Full-mouthed, furled, yellow:
- In the grove
- Burning the Wishes
- Ghazal, with Piano Bar in Winter
- Strange fur, this fine
- Cold Snap
- What I wanted to say
- In fallow season
- Dream Metonymy
- Ash Wednesday
- Mouth Stories
- Zuihitsu for G.
- [poem removed by author]
- Nuthatch calls to nuthatch, wren to wren—