The lark sings out after the rain adjourns,
perch'd earth against an ever tumbling sky.
The sound and sight excite my mind in turns,
a devil in the maelstrom of my mind.
"Is this illusion and would it rescind
the stirring effervescence of my heart,
and end the arched spires of kith and kind?"
The trifle question dies before it starts.
More weightless than illusion against art,
my mind moves on to dwell on other things,
the realization that stirs me with a start
of silver flecks of sunlight on its wings.
Illusion it may be, and life may be absurd,
but enough for me, is perch-ed with that bird.
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