1.
As angry insistence
and braying triumphalism
echo from the aging
alabaster façade
of a once bright city,
tears of the patriot
and tears of the powerless
tell all who would
hear one true thing:
Noble ideals wielded
without compassion
become as noisy
gong and clanging
cymbal.
The boulder falls, again
to rubble below;
squaring his back,
again
Sisyphus descends
alone.
2.
This fall football Saturday,
the discordant drone
of politicians and leafblowers
falls blessedly silent.
From hushed canopy stillness
peace descends
with gentle cascade of leaves
and bright celestial chatter
as a thousand starlings speak
in tongues of tiny angels
a sonorous blessing
to life, joyfully
borne.
3.
Wielding rake and canvas
on a driveway of leaves
my soul seeks relief
in productive tedium.
The measured rythmic scrape
and swish on concrete
and dry leaves slowly
resynchronize heartbeat
with head, sweat with
soul into single
functional unity once more.
And soon, in slanting sunlight
shadow patterns decorate
clean concrete canvas
set between broad
brown leaf shoulders,
a work that will last
hours.
4.
Satisfied, I sip
my hot caramel chai
watching new leaves
settle so gently
from limitless yellow-brown
canopy above,
and I know in my soul
a second true thing:
Though tomorrow and tomorrow
and tomorrows on end
bring trials and tears
to a fallen world,
there will be those
true patriots who stand
shoulder with Sisyphus
and together in toil
achieve due measure
of unsought nobility.
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