Many times and seasons pretend to sway our way,
and drop their hints of monotony – but fail.
Few are the banks of shuddered-down snow
on pathways already hidden from our feet.
Many are the pedals on wayward flowers
refusing a lesser share of their own song.
Few are the words ill-spoken from lips
more accustomed to smile or kiss.
Many the moving notes from the still page,
to still the ravaged breast will come.
Few, or none, the children, playground-found,
whose voices, loud and ardent, disappoint.
Many weary eyes are pointed upward where
hills, apart and distant, croon.
Few there be to quell the wish of
night-fallen star-gazers seeking.
And altogether, met and threaded down,
in aching stillness from the heart that John heard.