The same way
in which sunbeams
streaming blithely
through clouds
are taken to augur
some sweetening
of the future,
so too
are children
taught through sheer
repetition
to cry out
for the bygone
the way
the old gods cried
for nectar.
*
At the faintest blush
of the winter season,
the heedless way
gray geese careen
overhead
would seem
to suggest
that there's
no such thing
as treason.
And yet,
far be it from us
to cite abandonment
of instinct;
we prefer to dream
of filaments
connecting
one thought
to the next. So,
things fall apart—
this much is easy
to accept;
the hard part is
to repeatedly guess:
in what sequence?
For what reason?