I’m not sure, I have no idea when the Seer saw me,
I do know the prickly push I felt when the One Who Shares tried to create an exchange,
I don’t want to be that Pantheist, who curses the rain with the wind.
Struggle and contentment need not oppose the Woman Ironing,
I prefer the human still life, to be touched by the upturned corner of her mouth...
...To randomly accept it, and the astonishing speckled sparkles of the greasy Starling.
I can’t decide upon the will in it, or the resigned settling, the deference.
Can we settle on the faults, exult defeats, or do we just sneer our knowing sneers,
At the sinewy desires of the circling zeitgeist?
I want to try it, let me wobble without those wheels.
Let this generation “go forth,” three more times, to complete the migration.
Can we start and finish together, start again, finish again, start then finish together?Even the greasy starling can do that.
