After some years
disavowing my failures,
there is beauty
in futility—
mostly because
it makes the rough going
easier.
If I fail to describe
the formal
pleasure of a flower,
or the zest
of arcing birds,
or the secret
things I've heard
the treetops whispering
as the feeble end of summer
fell asleep
on autumn's shoulder,
is truth
not reaped from the lack
of result?
If I should take on
the responsibilities of god
and find each moment
swamped with all
the labors I most hate,
have I not found
my own heaven
in passivity?
At last, won't I
love the patchy
worlds I create?
