truths, these dismal days
of furiously flummoxed fools,
seem ever more difficult to come by
amidst the cacophony of zealots
screeching fair and foul
in insipid fits and petty starts
stammering across the stage
as desperate as a cokehead
to breathe in the luscious languor
of the mewling masses who
meander through life
like nescient lowing cattle
but there is this—
the earth continues to spin
the sun to radiate warmth
the soil to embrace roots
bound once more to generate life
when spring comes again,
and even in the midst
of a peculiarly human madness,
the thistle that inspires
a homesick Scot to sing
hardly even shivers
despite the morning frost
George Ellington 