Recalcitrant

It was in the quiver of the blades Of grass by my feet And in the soft whisper Of the wind as it did fleet Across my skin On what was finally a decent day To just sit on a ledge In sight of the setting sun And pledge To pay heed to the fly's buzz That I surmised That even if I could not survive In the most elegant manor My 'recalcitrant' banner Would not be lowered. For the beauty of life Lay in going against the tide of a calm river With net in hand Pinched by sand To get me a catch And yet to allow oneself The liberty of being Subdued by white water When and if, seeing It tug too enthusiastically At my limbs. Because, if I had been blindly doing What was meant to be done, On that decent day, I would never have begun To notice The quiver of the blades Of grass by my feet Or the soft whisper Of the wind as it did fleet Across my skin.