The Quest
       

The quest was a metaphor, of course
—it could mean abroad in a world
where May keeps blooming
right through one's own fall—but also:
just asking the questions. No longer
not-seeing suffering, not for
the thank-God-it's-not-me effect of, more
like bearing witness. Maybe the chance
to do an angstrom of good, make beauty
or protest or laughter. Any act
for those who (despite dire reports, still)
keep coming after. A gimbal stable
in drift, apparent wander. A dance
done with wonder—in every sense.

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Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Foust All rights reserved
from Catamaran Literary Reader
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission