I live among the satisfactions of the mad farmer
in homage to Berry’s archetypal crazy
-- the plenitude and pulchritude of all the heat
and height of summer: fawns and berries,
waves and friends laughing on the lakeshore.
How then these always moments, me restless
and pining, looking to the horizon discontent?
Dog days among the thriving plenty but me
longing -- for what? November, the setting moon
over new snow, howl in the firelit dark evening?
Not just that. More. Always more.
I worry I, hungry hearted, thumb my nose
at the generosity of God, though I see
and thank him for the weight of voice,
harmony, harvest, hope. How am I unsatisfied?
Evenings, mornings I read the paragraphs that
run in my mind. I am a wanted man, desperate,
one text away: the books flung upon my shelves
judge and jury over my silence? Or nodding
at my patience? Which one? Is it each one?
Half smile, stare at the sun on restless water.
Focus on the moment. Wrestle eyes inward,
swallow desire for the starlight that still seems
light years away. Stand. Still on the shore.
Wade, neck deep. Hold your breath. Soak.
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