the weeds are high out in the field,
the days are growing long —
so much of life we grade by yield:
how much, how far, how strong —
it’s silly, really. isn’t it?
The way we all keep score —
    where once the world seemed beckoning,
    it welcomes us no more.

the journey seemed to have no end,
but then that came, abrupt —
the licensing of lunacy,
the venal and corrupt —
we build another fence outside
a house sans roof or floor —
    where once our arms were opened wide,
    we open them no more.

the same begins as ever ends,
a unity in time;
the poet strolls through empty bends
and straggles for each rhyme.
and love goes begging for a song,
to dwell among the poor:
    where once we knew why we were here
    we seem to know
    no more.