In the tumult of the passing day
as sunlight twilight starlight pass the eyes
the sacred dust of love beckons peace.
The ground is set for action by forces
greater than those I can control:
each voice whispers a get ready signal–
muscles of the heart tighten—
and fear lodges in the throat in an
inward gulp at unsuccess.
Each note of the day strikes alarm:
feet freeze at some daily sights
in recall of the turn wrongly taken
or the promise left unfulfilled.
There’s no forgiveness here—
only a weary acceptance.
Nothing in the notes of today prepare
me for the stylistics class tomorrow.
I cannot follow the fabric of my day
how then can I claim to chart
the pattern of a poet’s day through his poems?
I wonder if Shakespeare wrote at nights
when the rickshaws went still— or if
Donne saw the nuisance of fleas
before he caught them in proud lines?
I wonder if each day is the magic
Camus affirms: or if the name of the rose
is that unattainable silence where I am
excluded by the noise of my spirit?
This then is where my inward clamour
does me such disservice: and this is why
the rootedness of love in the sacred ground
provides an anchor to my untethered being.