On a cold morning, like this one has turned out to be,
it crunches lightly underfoot, the crisp grass tines
bending to earth with each soft step,
wetting shoes with a coating of earth-cloud-moisture.
It glazes the car’s windshield, seeming so permanent
at first glance.
Yet with the sweep of a sleeve, it is gone;
In a few moments of first rising sun, it is dissipated.
The world is made of moisture such as this appears to be,
it quenches the thirst of genius and madmen
in the early hours of dawn; the veneer of parched desert
can be peeled away, and the sweet, cool wet marrow
of life can be trickled on the tongue,
a tempting treat to feed the mind’s desiccated spaces.
Yet with the raising of a fist, it is gone;
In a few moments of burning books, it is destroyed.
On a cold morning, like so many in the past have been,
there are those who fail to embrace the waking world
that waits, patient, for our tentative acknowledgment,
offering nourishment for our ravenous souls.
They see only thoroughfares to transport human need,
a path to wear down.
Yet with the touch of a breeze, it is gone;
In a few moments of senseless violence, it is desolated.
11 FEB 2003
