ON LOADING THE HAYCART

The horse that pulls my haycart trots along,
uncaring of the potholes that we meet.
I cannot rein him in – he’s far too strong,
and so we lurch, and tip hay on the street.
This haycart started out to be quite neat –
though very full. I need this hay of mine
and will not easily admit defeat!
You say I pitched the hay too high? Define
the limits one should set… and how confine
our aspirations to excel? How high
to set the bar – and where to draw the line?
For me, the limit is the moon – the sky!

A tiny doubt perhaps I entertain:
at journey’s end, will any hay remain?

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