I scan the shaded pages of this life,

Trying to catch a sentence or a phrase

That offers clues to things which yet amaze

My mind…but sadly, much remains in haze:

The letters shift and jostle; pages writhe

Beneath the rustling trees, thick hunkering roofs

And birdwing-shadows. Lies alone are clear:

Illuminated, spelled-out, pressing near—

But baseless, with a dunderheaded leer

Facing us fully-frontal, spotlit. Proofs

Of life’s unwieldy dissertation-points

(Called Truth), though, tickle rippling on the lakes,

Ruffling in owls, loose hours and patty-cakes;

Sliding through scenes that summon double-takes…

I feel their hintings creaking in my joints.

And still, I crave a paragraph, a line

Of life’s all-guiding codex, ever coy,

To surface, free of shadows that annoy.

Have none of us, us live-rs, earned such joy?

Or are the only seeing eyes divine?