Category Archives: Poetry

Looking out a Window on a Cold Saturday Morning


 

What is this bourgeois idealism,

This preparing-to-be-there,

Amid reticence and lassitude,

Against a child’s fortitude?

Is this not sheer resolution?

And whither these preparations in the end?

Duty-bound though they be,

Have they yet resolved (a memory of Sartre?)

How they might be free?

“Nonsense”

Behold these delights:

A fox running in the snow

And geese taking flight,

Some snapping as they go.

Yes, and would the dog really like

To chase them on the lake?

–Just as the wind appears to do,

Sweeping up and creating a swell?

Ah, but the wind feels divine,

So fresh as it enlivens anew,

We breathe, and then let go

Amid the wild and sweet rushes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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