Man without his pointy stick
is but a high-grade lunatic
who thinks himself Odin’s son,
but sees a mouse and takes to run.
Drawing himself at the feet of gods,
yet terrified of nature’s odds.
Achieving the inconceivable,
so at odds as to be unbelievable —
at once arrogant and trepid.
Begging waters to be tepid,
our radiated splendor is too scant
to warm a thimble for an ant.
One can never love what one fears
for the test of all one holds dear
isn’t found at an ideal distance
but in the most trying instants.