Reckoning

I reckon all the times, and ways,
I count the seconds that we spent
Pretending turtles in cement
Was normal. All our yesterdays
Have lighted fools; the donkey brays
Suggestions of an equine bent
Which he believes are heaven-sent;
The peacock shuts down his displays.

The heavens may in truth be vast,
But I am small. The greens and browns,
The leaves and branches, are the gowns
Of spring, but spring days never last.
Counting the comets whipping past,
I reckon moons, and stars, and clowns.