We’ll make a warm home out of mud and sticks,
all the best materials, neurochemical events
will wind and bind us through the years,
we’ll have work every day.

Feed, little perch, on blurry water surface,
troll the aisles of your insect supermarket.
I’m sorry for your trouble, Failure To Thrive,
and tell your mother I said so if you see her.

She leaned on the rail, left hand in a pool of water,
she felt neither yea nor nay, in paradise,
“living where choice and decision didn’t enter,”
outside the domain of the will, if not of time.

If no one is shooting at you;
if no one is threatening you with torture;
if no one is bulldozing your home:
you have more appreciation for the hummingbird’s pendulum dance.

From Spirit Engine