Sunday, September 11, 2016


How is it that reading
small lines of black and white
invariable and unchanging
dead and cold
is supposed to uncover
the mystery of force
and growth,
change and love?

How will we come to know
the love that blows the
grass up from the ground,
that pulls the sun
from sunup to sundown
if we never run
in dappled forests,
sunshine pouring
through rustling leaves,
fresh and virginal;

if we never spin
under the sun-roof of the sky,
her blue so deep it burns our eyes,
saturated with violet sun,
so close we can almost touch
her plump and fulsome clouds
that migrate from horizon to horizon;

if we never marvel at
the elegance of swans,
the simple mechanics of a
summer squirrel,
hoarding his nuts away for autumn;

if we never see
glassy lakes mirror trees,
so perfectly,
a new world is created in the water;

if we never raise our eyes
from simple sidewalks
to see a sky pock-marked
with lights from other worlds;

if we never look?

No comments:

Post a Comment