Gleanings
My old friend struggles
with his life's meaning.
Familiar with dead cats, Newton,
Einstein and incredible fractals,
he gleans patterns instantly
and misses nothing
in his galactic surveys,
nor leave a clue unglued.
He can entertain the most bazaare
concepts in the fervent hope
that truth will emerge from under
some unlabeled rock.
But all such inquiry always gyres back
to herds and migrations,
lemmings and old habits,
and wave upon wave upon
an ancient beach,
simply maya and samsura.
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