Saturday, December 12, 2015


                  For all we know, there yet is mystery
                  Enough, confounding our intelligence,
                  To keep our questing brains from atrophy
                  With who and what and where and why and whence.

                  We Homo questors now are launching probes
                  Deep into outer space in hopes to find
                  What intellects may live on distant globes
                  And how the vasty Cosmos is designed.

                  Were it not better, though, to tend our garden,
                  Restoring what was once a Paradise,
                  Relearning love and mending hearts that harden,
                  Becoming sapient by growing wise?

                      The follies we’ve committed, we’ll transcend
                      When all our errant trespasses we mend.