One day relent. The next rebel.
There is no one for whom all is well.
In spite of wit, and birr, and thumb,
not every problem has a sum.
When under a full or wounded moon,
something somewhere is in bloom.
Moving in at mountain speed,
the weather, the dreamer, and the deed,
the brindle, the buckskin, and the roan.
For all you know you are not alone.
At any rate you can’t escape
the ivory bridge and the village gate,
the twisted hoof and the broken wing,
the theft, the blight, the offering.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 34 Number 5, on page 46
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