Monday, April 15, 2013

tea parties and twitter


We have to keep looking both ways to remain humble and confident, humorous and serious, playful and responsible.  Yes, the human person is very small and very tall.
--Henri Nouwen

The wooing moon whispers a sad and lonely love song
to the twinkling tear that rolled off its white blank face.

The tear crystallizes, and resolves itself into a dewey star.

The milky orb's inconstant paean to its unique status in the sky 
becomes a troubadour's ballad to his distant and beloved lady.

There sits a small poet on the edge of the moon.
Watching from his perch, he looks down on the fountains, sparkling in the night.
He alights on the balcony of the sun.
Being in the middle of a miracle is slightly disorienting. 

The wind, a sweet current from the distant regions of the stars, swirls softly around his feet.
He closes his eyes to shut out the vast fields of stars he sees.

His eyes see his baby son, flesh-and-blood that's yet-to-be.
His heart skips a beat as he catches a whiff of buckwheat pancakes.
Who knew such aromas could reach as far afield as the nethermost corners of the sun?
He is a takes out a piece of stale bread and leaves it to toast on the sun's rays.
He hears his sister playing the piano; and taking out his poet's sword, he begins to write--

An inconstant paean to his unique status in the sky.

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