The sun does arise In that aubade way It spills out over petals Infinitely So silent but a discourse: A camp of brook and pale-freckled Leaves, A clamor of engines Escaping the scene Too busy, too distant To actualize their hum. At the intercession of wood and modern man I stood dutiful, tenuous, Apt to standing still βTween what has my calling And what, my will: This aesthetic simplicity, resplendent awe Stays with the punch-card On my way to work But I know Iβll stand at the edge Once more.