Asleep at the Tree of Knowledge

Early morning's overture of rapture
Is met with the weighing of coins
As a groggy head strains to expel
The cause of what pain comes with waking.

It's always the same, what should have been done
Is different for the mind than for the spirit:
The universe doesn't question its own perfection;
We weave skeins of compassion for every dream

And fall from our own grace every morning,
Running late, constipated, mangy, horny,
While birds echo beauty and trees wave to sunlight—
Not to be automatically happy, what a miracle!

Doubly so, since we are what is immortal,
We've learned how to make it all work,
We know that life can never, ever end
Yet worry the flight path away of every bird.

How sublime this trick we play on ourselves
To stare at a hole in the ground 'til it fits us,
To look at people as if we must get what they are,
Awestruck at creation as if it's something other.