Blithe

And the air combs the varied green,
Reeds canticle with woodland leaves,
And eyes rest in the ember light,
Breeze fills lungs with life unseen,
And breath, and warmth, and gravity,
A call to soul, to mind, to gene,
Perceive.

For what is flesh, and what is life,
And what is love, and what is light,
There — joys that rupture all decorum,
Here — sorrow that these joys requite,
In the kiss or the back of the hand,
The presence beckons to have the sight,
Perceive.

For the artistry in every spec of space,
We would but drown within the ecstasy,
So the mercy in mercy suffers — staid,
As this lonely race forages in fantasy,
And eyes squinting in gathering twilight,
Blithe to the beauty, sulk in jealousy.
Perceives,
Not.