Find It

Effort everywhere, except the air

In which each effort flourishes.

If you are comfortable, if you are

Not sick, not hungry, not in pain,

Or not in too much pain, at least,

Why not declare yourself content?

Something will make you move soon

Enough. Someone will tell you

You should be making more of an effort.

But look at how this shadow curls,

The empty arm of an iron bird feeder

That doesn’t feed these summer birds.

It draws its slow calligraphy and fades

From the white pillar. I find it moving.