By William Scott
Such a lot of confusion;
Looking, not arriving.
Or not wanting our findings:
Long walking in the way.
What were we hunting?
What was the capture of our searching?
Amnesiac to the Will
(Long since compromised)
That drove us from home.
Early morning Spring sounds.
Geese coming North
With the doubt of a weary engine
Struggling to turn over,
Punctuated by jubilant honks.
I am sitting on the deck alone;
But my feet are bare.
Sky, mostly cloudless, pale blue;
Muted for lack of light.
My hands are bare too,
But this is the usual way for hands.
Feet bear the weight of our carcass
Shod in wool and leather(or Vinyl)
Hands toil or play or idle
In the light.
Maybe. . . Plaintive?, or perhaps
Pleading against the cold morning air
Which the uncompromising madness of instinct
Has them pelting through,
Questing homelands suitable for mating.
To ensure that more geese
May madly fly
On crisp March mornings
Through still cloudless skies over St. Mary Lake;
Questing matrimonial habitations.
Max opens the door grunting,
I answer with question,
We make Tea
And place out the croissants & Blueberry muffins
We bought yestereve.
I introduce Max to Dark Honey.
He is uncertain.
Sophia sleeps yet.
I return to the Deck.
The sky is now its proper morning hue.
A nearly seamless whir of tires on the road above
Has begun to drown the hushed din of birdsong.
We are not away enough."
In contradiction to this dogmatic austerity
I go in for a fresh cup of tea.
My hypocrisy knowing no bounds,
The uncozied tea is tepid.
(I only want the prescribed luxuries withheld.)
Besides, why prefer goose noise to tire noise?
Does one hymn God’s Will more than the other?
Both are seeking habitation.
Though b’socked now,
My feet are still cold.
I feel cleansed through this ascetic cinema:
Against the plenum of comforts I daily groan the absence of.
If I could honk
I would honk,