The earth is an enormous spinning ball.
As asphalt tendrils grip the globe and squeeze
it seems the sphere constricts, and therefore all
“point A’s” draw ever closer to “point B’s.”
Facilitated transport, in the end
on foot, by bicycle or bus or car
imbues a nagging soft disquietude
concerning where to be and time to spend
for absent pure contentment where we are
a greater happiness should be pursued.
So atherosclerotic streets pulse full
of hungry souls headlong to their next thrill
without a will against its siren pull
or thought if they will ever get their fill.
Such routes are just conveyance, nothing more
no love is lost on dirty avenues
where sirens wail and travelers are tossed
by waves of advertisements sent to war
for their attention and their revenues
each moment there is just a moment lost.
But you lay far from where such things annoy,
an ebon ribbon of tranquility,
and dance between the corn fronds and the soy
in exultation of fertility
your gently curving shoulders call to me
and amorous, you rise and press me hard.
No blemish found upon your inky skin,
we crest together, pause, then gravity
releasing speed that she held in retard
takes hold, we two become one with the wind.
I see, while cycling your winding way,
your beauty does not lie at either end.
Each blade of grass and pebble bids me stay,
each farm yard that I pass hails me as friend.
Oh teacher mute! The lesson you have taught:
the joy is not the ending or the start,
but holding tight the opportunity
to drain the draught each moment will allot
and know with every pulsing of my heart
that where I am is where I need to be.
© Kenneth Henry, 2015