When will there not be anguish that curls
in restless coils in the deep dark of flesh,
never still, sleeping the sleep of cats?
When will the day just grow in its own time
at the pace of cloud and wind, not ticking
to the hollow rhythm of deadlines?
Sky spreads high blue, so dense it leaves
smears in the meadow; shadows beneath
the trees flicker with wings and fluttering songs.
No calm falls when the wind
blows, and the snake shifts,
and the clock ticks.
Only in sleep does it stop,
the nagging amorphous fear
of failure, unhappiness, disappointment;
only because we hope, is the edge always
just before our feet, the cliff yawning, and beneath,
the ocean pounding on grinning rocks.