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?