Where is a measured clarity?
I work, obsess, give up, despair—
not like the singing world in vernal
balance. If I possessed internal
equanimity, I’d keep
a steady state like equinox.
No overlooking, though, the shocks
that bracket equal day and night—
through droughts and quakes and hurricanes,
somehow resilient Earth maintains
its equilibrium, with time
and timeless, unknown sense.
The spring will play in plot and sequence—
snowdrop, crocus, tulip, lily—
allotted spaces, days to flower.
Winter doesn’t dint their power:
it allows it. Constant blooming
would fracture greater symmetry.
Daily roses would limit me,
as well. I’ll trust in wider arcs
circling into parity.
