60

The days are filled with difficult tasks
And turning from them we say:
"How difficult it was today!"

Black clouds yield so little light
That if the stars' revolving fugue
Are lost to us, they know their place.

If we were to dim the lights and pace
Far from the city we'd see them
Wonder and ponder on the Milky Way

Or the seed that grows
Or the seed cut down
That we watered, and overwatered.

Let us build ourselves
A little house
Somewhere in the back-yard

A dollhouse for my neice; for my nephew,
Ropes, threaded through stone,
And a tree for us to climb,

Such as we are,
Planted
And often forgot

What gave this tree its root;
And that the end of toil
Is fruit.


© Dan Goorevitch