The light of a silver afternoon
Is all atmosphere-filtered sunlight,
Same as on a day without a cloud.
Quibble with the filter, not the light,
Or praise the filter’s woolen softness,
Which has nothing to do with the light.
Under a glass shell, you beetle small
And use your papery wings to hum
A little hymn to time and quiet,
To freedom from appointments, to light.
Does anyone else spend days like these,
Practically helpless, untroubled, free?
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