Wrapped in a home with a drippy roof
I sit, desiring to speak--but nothing comes.
I read the flower words of a writer who sees
This world and praises her maker, his mumms
In storms that blow; Yet I, I stand aloof.
The air blows cooly from a machines's gritty guts.
The rain drips from a light, dropping to a bucket.
I sit in my chair, listening to sounds of both--
Which is a sound, a noise, a rubbing of nerves, racket?
It is all one unless that door one shuts.
Man in nature and nature in Man--and yet--
What we make and all we make is also a part
Of nature or else we are not. So which
Would you have us be: Of nature, soul and heart,
Or separate--all the beauties to forget?
Steve R. Morris
20040118