D. ERIC PARKISON
We are not moved by intellect alone
But alone our power is to be moved—
So the autumn-fat starling on the stone
Path has just now, speckled in color, proved:
The life I’d learned to say I’ve grown to hate
Extends to me its love—and greedy as
I have become, I gather to my plate
Its fruit and meat and think all that it has
To do to be persuasive is to be:
Its fight with none is also not with me.
The red leaves being gathered by the wind
Sink into the ocean by which the world’s rimmed,
And I sit thick in my privilege, my suffering.
Sure, the bird dances, but what will winter bring?