How like a child
to know that being free
to taste the wind,
is the unbidden source of art,
of what life means,
that joy is there.

How fair,
a thousand wheels
above the earth
that sing upon the hills,
that gifted from the air,
relay its strength and redirect
its power.

How much of truth
that trees may breathe again,
that fish may frolic in the ripples
that the stones create
in flashing mountain streams,
that caribou will graze upon a plain
though far away, still undefiled.


How deep the melancholy of the earth
to learn the incarnation went awry
and it was man who rose up from the sod,
a metamorph,
a true sardonic sire,
a saint evolved in irony,
an avaricious god.