The Pump

Sixty years and more since
I held the clover in my hand
in the field fronting our house,
looked close, saw the blue
piercing white, whispered:
“blue-blooded-bleeder”
and felt the charge
of equality to mystery,
loved the blubbering
rush of words repeated
like Helen at the pump
discovering ‘w-a-t-e-r’
then tossed the thing aside,
ran off to pick up a leaf,
a pebble, a piece of trash
along the road, devouring
the face of each to discover
its secret name equal to,
if not larger than, itself.
Shouldn’t we be tired
of all this ecstasy
by now?