My husband is watching the Tour de France,
I’m watching my words here.
We can’t be too clear, can we, but
the opposite is also true —
clarity can be a pain, and when in pain
we seek freedom, even while we are
not always sure what it is.
Through a tunnel, darkly, but what
will we see when we emerge? Birds have
their routine songs in the morning,
and in the evening, too, before their meal
of grubs and seeds. They do not plan
dinner the way we do, they do not desire
sauce or spice, or mice, or gossip.
We think we know better, we always
think we know better. We set our tables,
position our forks and knives, battle plans,
we move our mountains and armies,
we climb our trees, we think we need to
make it heavy. Even our songs are hymns
of lamentation, of death, and of envy.