One thing’s true no matter what
Life runs through all its paces
making broad and bold-brushed strokes
and trickling through
scant, puny places,

and it leaves sometimes little clue
on ginger-light, gently trod thickets
or highway-byway beaten paths
where everybody’s mama, brother,
and you, too
show tracks that get so well mixed up
nobody leaves much print behind
not even for the old hack trackers
who can read such subtle traces.

Life dallies now,
and now it speeds,
a stagnant, algae nursing pond,
white mountain water rapid races,

The silent creep of wiggle worms
the happy gleam of tongue and beak and eye
to find said worms
to feed their hungry birdlets’ faces.

The droughts, the floods,
the calms the storms,
the parch, the rot,
the struggle merely to survive,
the surfeit that permits all thrive,
just like the hidden poker hand
that could yield wild full house– Jack, Queen, King–
or else Bill Hickock’s dead man’s hand
a fist black eights and aces.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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