No end to woe. No way to know
Which weighs more. Today
Bliss carries my small boat
Turning, oars lost already
Miles upstream. Bliss
A word we’re barely allowed
These days to use. Now
The boat spins, sky flashes
Blue through leaves where
A pirol lofts its song, pure
Gold on the ear. The air
A faint trembling. Downstream
Could be anywhere.