generalizing takes so much less energy than thinking seems to so she lives accordingly a person built from labels

generalizing takes so much less energy than thinking seems to so she lives accordingly a person built from labels
She asked me why I spoke like rain that falls in tropics, unobserved, and if I knew the reason why dessert is always lastly served, And I said "I have no idea. And no. At home, I eat pie first, and if I'm hungry, still, eat more, or maybe sit and slake my thirst." She shook her head in sad regard, and said, "You are a mellophone." I knew quite well just what she meant: a mobile horn or baritone, Who specializes in off-beats. I thought then of her piercing gaze, and said, "And you're a golo spear." She smiled broadly, quite unfazed, And said. "How often have you used that metaphor? It seems quite odd." And I said, "Never." "All the same," she spoke, "It feels like pasquinade." And so it was. And so it is: my imitation of a mind that can't be captured anywhere, or anywhere that I can find
She knew her roles, But didn't know How she could be All of those things; For though she showed Some aptitudes, They were not those Of queens or kings, But somewhat more like Circus clowns; A little scary, Out of date -- She knew what she Was s'posed to be; But some of us Just aren't That great
Four-and-ninety years ago, He first came to these hills, The child of a couple doomed By undeveloped pills But somehow, he survived the times And lived on to relate The way he nearly fought the war (His birthday came too late) Instead, in southeast Asia, he Performed with passing valor A thing he sometimes thinks about, And wakes, in sweat and pallor But that was sixty years ago. So much around him changing, His escapades, mere stories now, His mind slowly deranging -- But in the hills again, he finds He can give up resistance, And hear the echoes of a past That other, whole Existence
must you always build you must a sacred calling in your hands along a stretch of sinewed shored among the vanquished vanished strands the houses built into the hills the worlds you craft in mind and strength that come unbidden full and clear of love and height and home and length
I watched her turn into a soul That I could hardly recognize; And maybe it's just that I'm old, And she, a banquet for the eyes -- But there was more, and so much more: The restless hope that came that hour She realized her dreams were near, And getting them, within Her power
Diving into freedom Power has a feeling In the arboretum Flowers see no ceiling She had strength in pleasure Her own whims amusing Finding her own measure Using, not abusing