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The Burden of Being
All day the wind
has tormented the trees,
causing branches to whip
and bend. There is an anger
let loose, loud in its haste
to rip and destroy
what is vulnerable.
Spider webs woven last night
are torn, flowers are plucked
of petals and the wind chime
has been strangled
by its own chord, choked
of its sound. But nothing
is intended.
It is I who have interpreted
the scene and set language
the task to frame nature
in human terms, give
the mechanics of a clock
the power to decide the tick
of its own time.
All is mindless motion,
unfolding to laws deaf
to the pleas of mercy, revenge
or want. Even the cry
of a hungry child dissipates
in the distances of space.
It is us who bare the burden,
weighted with a sense
of right and wrong, bound
by compassion, torn by
doubt and despair, we, born
into the tumult of evolution,
are endowed with the gift
to transcend our station
through love, dissolving
into the infinite.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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