To a Mouse, Again

"But, Mousie, thou art no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain;

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang aft agley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain"

- Robert Burns, To a Mouse

Because we are good and have always done what we are told diligently we awaken to morning labor dutifully we accomplish tasks we do and plan and do tell me I did well, teacher give me a good grade Whittled down to mice, we are industrious creatures scratching out our miniature plans

in the pointless dust in dank cavities of attics or basements possessed by our little goals like plump seeds robotic rodents we twitch and scurry

Even in sleep our minds are contained by the squared corners of the box we tremble with striving dreams

for years, years we scratch and scuttle constructing our tower of twigs

Until finally one morning we lurch with age

sag with pain

and remember what we forgot what never made it on our To Do List:

to touch each other’s skin devour color with our eyes blur our borders with flaming tongue with searing melody our ravines quivering exalting the throbbing sun to swim the green and pulsing seas shriek with skies scarred with cobalt clouds swirl and churn with the wind-lusting trees to cry and crave with earth drink the soil of our bodies to free the voice like a swallow:

opening the portal to God

when was the hour

of delirium

of the ravaging

of the rage and ecstasy?