if the season of stars
and that of suns can arm
in arm down time’s corridor  

if their campfires in faint
crawl can mirror winks

if hemlocks, disabl’d
to tread, can yearn thru the compost
and wind,
and be fulfill’d in fire’s
absence

then why do we, so
appris’d of them,
ponder to afford
or not
a hand in bloom, an orb’s
regard,
a welcome?

how drunk are we
enslaving wisdom,
in order to pit celebrity
against the self!