The Holy Grail is a Long-Lived Conspiracy

The woodpecker on the tree
By the bird feeder should mean something.
Its feathers, red as lamb’s blood,
Should contain some deep, enigmatic truth
Known only to certain tribes of ascetics
Who spend their days
Deep in the Himalayan winter, standing on poles.

The corrugated iron gate,
Dressed in its finest suit of moss,
Seems about to lean in close
Like a fellow confederate,
And tell me the Tao of pouring hot water.

Once, there was a wise philosopher
Who spoke of teacups,
And of the great, all-powerful noumena.
Sometimes, I think I’m close-
Then an old friend comes along,
And it’s too late. We’re back at the fair,
Watching the ventriloquists.

By now, the woodpecker has flown off,
And all that remains
Are the meaningless shadows, free to leap about
On the hissing summer lawn.