still reek of muses
and luck,
of such fraudulent
portents as
the way the wind is blowing?
Were you so
unwittingly
raised to believe
in those inevitable angels
who hover
invisibly
over each
grass blade out there,
encouraging it to grow?
I must say that it seems so
from the way I
could feel you
swaying
in the veritable
breeze you were making
as you prayed
again last night, in the
usual frenzy
for clarity's grace
to be delivered
through your window
instead of
for the frivolous,
next opportunity
to labor quixotically
for a glimpse
again tomorrow.
