Impulse

A person, willowy or firm

Of thought or fortitude

One about so tall

Needn’t think as a single

Leaf or brick or synapse or impulse

Who cannot move at all

Not on a day such as this

As water gleams

As sun shines

Someplace

On this where that we are

nation

Dismay to disillusion. Hours glued to days and weeks and years. We stay stuck here. Must we? Were we thinking when we set down age-old shovels, we’d need to dig our way through? Was there only feelings? An absence of logic? Dismay. We’d not conceived to land on muddy, sinking sand. Now there is no hand -nay, not even our own- willing, it seems, reaching, to pull us up. Disillusion. A notion. A nation. Were we any we at all?