As she was cutting across the square
one Sunday afternoon,
she wondered, wavering on despair,
why matters in her life
fell far short of satisfaction.
For she was gentle, she meant no harm,
she often gave gifts to her peers
in the mornings, she was smooth,
sun-smiling flowing water
in others’ company, a faithful,
diligent mother and daughter.
Yet many days passed by as a blur,
bounty apparently eluding her.
She sat on a bench, a line of trees
fussing as autumn trees tend to do,
the wind’s speech curling about the hue
of her sadness, finding her mind:
So long have you been inured
to the mask of service, a practiced art,
overlooking the needs of the heart.
Fear, apprehension, conformity’s kin,
cannot know the spirit of cooperation
any more than the wings of elation.
Your selflessness assumed is nothing more
than a pale or muted selfishness,
a selfishness simply that wouldn’t dare.
Resentment has quietly, imperceptibly
been born behind a mask of care.
The ought has usurped the is;
apprehension that wears duty
falls far short of beauty.
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