Among the Clouds

—for Ross Gay

Often, in our enthusiastic zeal,

We tend our gardens based on how we feel,

Forgetting that our roots are dug in dust,

That smiling serpents everywhere will trust

Our foolish flaws to fall in sudden love,

To hoe a non-resistant path, a groove

So smooth that we, hungry for touch, anoint

Some Eros, or some false god, who disappoints,

Who never satisfies.  I must confess:

I, too, at times, have come to detest

My own blind faith in seismic swells.  I’ve yearned

For beauty, bounty—only to be spurned,

To be left soaring high, like some child’s kite,

Confusing altitude for true delight.

Poetry Midwest, 2007