Happy is not the point, I
know that even if I don’t
know what the point is.
at the top
of the just-budding pin oak
doesn’t know either,
but being a good Taoist doesn’t worry the question.
The daffodils dress themselves
(no lilies just yet, no field)
in their best,
go to church. Bees minister
to them anyway.
All–jay, bud and bee–feed and breed, and that’s enough for them.
The bluejay doesn’t want to be remembered
or make a better world for fledglings to come.
But I’m not bird, tree or flower,
I fret, hope, doubt and pine.
They have their work, I have mine.
Another experiment in form. The first two stanzas have the same syllable-count in corresponding lines. The final stanza has no set form, except that I didn’t want it to end with a long line as the first two stanzas did, and I wanted to close with a rhyme.