Ruminations on a Sunday Morning
I know the passive impulse of your words,
feeling righteous like a skyscraper
grounded in unturned soil, yet nothing
strives to the sky,
touches the clouds,
pierces the veil.
I know the sad submission of your being,
less disappointing for me than wretched for you.
Nature’s spirit sprints and leaps and flies
in short it moves.
Human’s spirit is that and a soul for
For dreaming of moving towards
Not only scraping skies but forging heavens
blazing with the