this one, too

what joy is there to be found
in this world?
what sorrow?
and yet here is something
that might be found.
this moment.

this

sigh

what sorry days, these,
which chatter endlessly on and on
yet say nothing.
cicadas singing in
the evening
tell me more
than do a day's worth
of garbled urban tasks
ticking past
with fastidious
disdain
even as i disdain them.

what discontent, this,
which demands that i should
seek the unfulfilled life
when i seek
to seek
nothing
and, so,
fail.

A Dream of Trees

Here is your un-daily poem! Brought to you by Kate.


A Dream of Trees

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments,
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?


--Mary Oliver