'The wonder that I feel is easy
yet ease is cause of wonder...'
T.S.Eliot Little Gidding
Of course we'd care to console draggled selves
of us, weathering, lingering en plein,
gangrel moments snouting-out sparse beauty,
distracting looped arpeggios of pain.
Show me an afternoon that gently shelves
like a squeaky white beach to sea of cream.
Biting fly, bit of earache, some duty
undone nags at reverie in wind-stream.
Yet, let the past loom up like clouds, stoop by,
and pass like clouds behind the shading roof,
for the miracle of feeling easy
(whining interruptions stand as proof)
is not something thirsty ghosts need envy,
taking that offering cupped to memory.
