Wiping sweat from the proverbial brow
or the toiled face not cooled by frost,
even ice in an unexpected seasonal shift,
we take each day as it comes – no more
or less than this – but somehow such things
have to be blamed on someone no matter
how much the storytelling takes over from
reality and the sheer simplicity in our lives.
So come the long day’s end into evening,
then poets are philosophers and preachers
punishing us with their deeper meanings
after the memories of their innocence.
It is in picking within such day-ends so deep
that searching sends the searchers to sleep.