Transcendence is a young man's retreat,
and resides in a place
Beyond place, vasty, boundless.
It hums, unlike the beauty of the
without pause, without mercy.
If it's an absence, it's we who are
absent, not it.
If it's past cold and colorless,
it's we who are colorless, not it.
If it's hidden, it's we who hide.
March is our medicine,
we take it at morning, we take it at night.
It, too, is colorless, it, too,
is cold and past tense.
But it's here, and so are we.
Each waits for deliverance.
March, however, unlike ourselves,
knows what to expect—
April again in his Joseph coat.
The seasons don't care for us.
transcendence is merely raiment,
And never a second thought.
Poor us, they think, poor us in
our marly shoes,
poor us in our grass hair.
© by Charles Wright