Finding a Way Around

Finding a Way Around

Looking back at past times’ pleasure, I find that I have lost my measure;
Of what is expected, perhaps, what is good.  Lost for now in psyche’s wood.
Seeing things that can’t be real, believing things I cannot feel.

But a whisper of love across the brow, through my ear the voice of  NOW!
Mother’s love was never so harsh.  A new wind blows through the sacred marsh.
One instant cool and another warm, up and down she feeds the storm.

Scylla’s new a vaporous form, how can mere men weather the storm.
Some draw close looking up, drinking from the memory of mother’s cup.
Some hold fast to a tree they found, and some give up only looking down.

The first listen to a shaking rock, Morse and Moses to rape the lock
The second follow always behind, the third seek only to hold a line.
Now which to be the first, second or third, which is most able to hold a word.

The first seems most natural to me, but when she comes I’ll probably flee.
The second seems to rather, trust in the judgment of his brother.
And the third is caught by the fathers love, one last long dance with a brand new dove.

But to hold a line takes two, points are found in each morning’s dew.
And if I wake one dawn to find, that my other point has been unkind.
I’ll make such an effort to woo my brother that my love won’t mind the words of  Mother .