Less Pain Is Less Life

Weather churns the world's ultimate conceit,
Endlessly changing metaphors for time,

As, for example, this lake-effect fog,
Precipitated by traffic exhaust,

Blankets the city with particulates
That block the sun and crystallize as frost,

Eventually whitening into snow
That prettifies the cold, grey human minds

Shuffling down increasingly slushy streets,
Treacherous at first, then benign again

As sun breaks through the fallen dome of smog,
Ice melts, mists rise and fall again as rain.

Call it all time, stomping crust from our boots
As we enter and exit the cafe,

Complaining to each other, asking when
It will ever be warm again, knowing 

It will be, and we will be, or we'll be
Gone as this damp day that makes our joints ache.

The journey has got to be the reward,
If we never have anything for sure

That we can't lose, except for the weirdness 
Of never having anything for sure

That accompanies every lost moment
Acquired as the thought that now it's lost,

Perpetual sense of transition
Gone only from satori, surgery,

And the even stranger gift of deep sleep,
States lacking sense of eternal passing.

Otherwise it's not, perhaps, very wise
To try to hurry through, skip, or avoid

Even the most inconvenient feelings,
The exhaustion, the boredom, and the pain

Which are the textures sensing living brings,
Sooty winter solstice pangs, fine as spring.