Wednesday, April 02, 2008

My Muse is on vacation

In the wee hours of the morning
With the howling wind outside
I sit and shudder, worrying
That time has turned the tide

Or shall I play the cynic
And laugh at every tick
We thought we marked toward progress
Lest I be thought a hick?

No; though we often wander
In random, scattered paths
We drift, I feel, yet onward
Beyond the cynic's grasp

Yet not beyond our passions
Aye; therein lies the rub
How can we ever fashion
An angel from a grub?

We can't
That much we see
But mightn't that grub
Just be
A caterpillar, dangling from a tree
Waiting for the moment
When butterflies are free?