Poetry

That May Be, 23 (144.)

There might come a time
when all I want to find
is some critical takeaway,
as though everything may be distilled
to a lesson, with the essence
always being
educational.
This could be the side-effect
of always wanting to improve,
so instead of acknowledging the rut,
I think of what the rut might tell me.

It would probably tell me to get out
of the damn hole,
but I’m not listening to its advice,
I’m just imagining what I want it to say.

One day I will know patience,
one day I will thank these dirt walls,
one day I will have no grievances,
one day I will walk hallowed halls.

I should have started climbing ages ago.
It does no good to slap my own
idle hands, but the point is,
I’ll never leave the rut
if I don’t start moving.

There are always ruts on the side of the road,
and woods stretched out near the fields that are sown,
and birds in the sky singing with the wind’s song,
and fish in the rivers just getting along,
and I wonder,
when will I know their wisdom?

It is not
the point to wait for an aha moment;
one must earn that clarity.
Knowledge is not charity,
though it should be freely given –
to take it
and grasp it
and understand it,
that’s where the work comes in,
and I
still have a lot of work to do.

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