Discontent

There are horses pastured in the hills,
red roses in the vineyards, this orange finch
with downy head examining my window
for a way in.  Oaxacan memelas for lunch,
or mole amarillo if the mood takes me,
and archaeology class Monday nights. 
Just yesterday Mahler, transcendent—
that grand influx of looping silver horns.
Why am I feeling discontent?  I have the world. 
Which single part of it, alone, is not enough
to satisfy my greedy heart?

 
—Christie