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Worlds Enough
Time sits on us like a brooding hen,
Making all things come to fruition,
And we, inside the ellipse of albumen,
A safe and closed frontier,
We live our lives in frantic haste,
Will not willingly see our small affairs
Come to an end of futile waste,
Knowing soon will come the cracking of the egg.
We fully know the smallness of our lives,
Know too, that it is death which sets us free;
Yet we sweat blood and gash ourselves with knives,
Calling on our gods to move both Earth and Heaven
Only to retard by a single hour
The step into the larger universe.
We would stay huddled, closely packed
If it lay at all within our power.
Nothing well done fails to bear fruit,
Extending beneficence into the greater Kingdom;
Nothing evil ever can take root,
Torn out, swept up, cast away with the stubble.
A World of rotten eggs is insufficient to pollute
The fragrant air of yet-enchanted Eden;
Earth's highest virtue nothing to salute,
The greatest blessedness is but a good beginning.
-Don Comfort
Send poems to ddcomfort@gmail.com
