A poem

Mid-Lenten Quandary

by William Scott

 

I  Roam

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?

We wake

Amnesiac to the Will

(Long since compromised)

That drove us from home.

 

 

II  Retreat

Early morning Spring

Sounds.

Geese coming North

With the sound of a weary engine

Struggling to turn over,

Punctuated by jubilant honks.

 

I am sitting on the deck alone

Bundled,

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)

In Darkness,

Hands toil or play or idle

In the light.

 

‘Jubilant’?

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.

This,

To ensure that more geese

May madly fly

On crisp March mornings

Through still cloudless skies over St. Mary Lake;

Questing matrimonial habitations.

 

III Respite 

Max opens the door

Grunting “G’mornin’”.

I answer with question,

“Breakfast?”

“Sure.”

 

We make Tea

Scramble eggs

And place out the croissants & Blueberry muffins

We bought yestereve.

Eating

I introduce Max to Dark Honey.

He is uncertain.

 

Sophia sleeps yet.

 

IV  Resignation

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.

Proving,

“though away,

(Whispered)

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,

I complain;

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:

Bitter toes

Against the plenum of comforts I daily groan at the absence of.

 

If I could honk

I would honk,

‘Repent’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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