And with the turning of the earth within the
sparse grounds in which we trace,
or paths and dreams and thoughts.

And with the celebrating fields that blow in
and across the wind, forever and beneath her
yearning for more.

And with the sitting of minds in cafe seats
or on benches playing chess, within and where
introspection roams.

And with the escape of faces into liquid
and chemical and the neurotic;
a futile but pleasurable song.

And with the screaming of children in joy,
in pain, in the search for attention
we all want and adore.

And with the banality of housework
comfort can be found in the repetition
of routine, and relaxtion found.

We stretch. We sing. We cry. We scream.