The Moment

What a joy to be in a specific place

At a specific time!

No other place is quite like this,

Nor any other time like this here time.

That moment I extolled is gone, but now

See what a moment has taken its place!

This is a fine, fine, moment – not more fine,

Perhaps, than that one there before,

But no less fine, I'll warrant! And this one

Is even more the-same-and-different. Blessed day!

We're all just ostriches. You'll see what I mean.

We keep our faces buried in the sand –

But sand is where the roots are, and the bugs,

Which are, to us, delicious (since we're ostriches).

It's only now and then that we have time

To point our sandy faces at the sky

And thank the blank, brute mystery for this –

This one all-precious moment, which is gone.

Then roots and bugs will call us back again;

What blinds us, feeds us – and the rest is grace.