the consolations of discomfort -- a poem

A deer is bounding, forest-hidden,
a hunter races forth with speed.
On hill, through dale, pursuit unending,
a rest I seek to quell my need.
The wind, inconstant, plays and teases
through boughs and leaves of restless trees,
and I, inconstant, ever-driven,
am seeking emptiness to please.
The bow sends out a sudden arrow;
the deer untouched it passes by;
this craving, driving, heart's own yearning
through paths of empty air will fly.
I stumble, stutter, and am clumsy
as feet are aching, worn and sore;
the pain is like a close companion,
a memory of something more.
Exhaustion makes my heart grow humble
as weariness impedes my pride,
reminds me of my ache-filled folly,
of Adam old who has not died.
The legs exhausted homeward wander;
in ache I wish to reach my end.
The weary roads are swiftest highways
and heavenward most surely bend.