Tracking Your Logic

 

To follow all the pathways of your mind

Is travel fitting for Odysseus!

Your logic’s near-impossible to find

Once lost—like zany squirrels in trees, who fuss

And scuttle—stop—then, hurtling through the air,

Land in some bending poplar yards from where

They started.  Bam!  Limbs quiver; leaves fall, shorn

From stems—but where the shreds hang, roughed and torn,

One spies no squirrels.  So one has to guess

Their whereabouts from shuffles in their wake

And squawks of other creatures whose egress

Attests to the manic gang beneath the shake

Of leaves. But why they ran up that one limb,

Then down, then up—or why they ran at all,

I can’t surmise—no more than follow you.

And why that one loud squirrel chased the slim

Dark-tailed one round in spirals to the tall

Far crooked branch that angles to the side—

And not a lower, plainer, easier route

Along the horizontal branch that beckons, wide,

And leads straight to its endpoint like a chute

Is mystery greater still.

For months, I’ve seen

You pitching on your own strange, jagged courses,

Seizing anew on snags where you’d just been

While importuning aid from nearby forces.

 

Look, oh look!  There, up in breathless air,

A moving, shaking fit of frenzied leaves

That hints at things of portent passing there—

But only newborn sparrowlets believe!

 

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