March 17, 2017
St. Patrick’s green lies all around on this auspicious day.
Trees and bushes, fields and vines are all decked in their best.
Emeralds spark on every leaf as clouds descend to play.
Tranquility makes stealthy march, whispering to us, “Rest.”
Something ancient in me longs to graze those swathes of grass,
and roll as cows do, edenorton flaring nostrils wide.
Ensconced so high in crowded bus, behind specked panes of glass,
an ache begins to rise in us: Why did we choose to ride?
There must be better ways to go than riding in a box;
ways that let us touch and taste and feel our glad limbs wake.
There must be better ways to live than hiding behind locks;
ways our forebears knew but lost, unable to re-make.
Our culture’s such a hungry thing, devouring rest and joy.
Inertia keeps us all benumbed, we watch life slip away.
The only hope of leaving here where comforts cling and cloy
is choosing feeling what there is, not keeping it at bay.