What is There to Be Done?

Photo: Bryant Park, Manhattan

What is the time to do,

Here where the birds sing?

Cars are passing

The wind is slow,

Moves flags

Searching for the lost.

It’s the pink of morning clouds,

The hum of engines that enchants.

The air I breathe

Leaves a residue of care within me:

What magic this

That has no incantation,

No result?

What is there to be done?