The principles of
abrasion are
miniscule
and often
nondescript;
flotsam and tiny
grains of sand
can easily
wear away
a mountain
of angst
and even one
of strong
and
lingering hope.
It is all
dependent on the
way you hold your
face against the
change;
the way you
lean into the newness
of each and every
increment of time –
a time that goes
on endlessly in its
devotion and focus
to carrying away
with it
pieces of the
you that
you had clearly
thought
immovable and
relentlessly
eternal.
Safe.
Solid.
Not so;
oh, not so.
It is only
one ray of
a sunbeam
that feeds
arboreal growth;
one grain
of sand
on the shore
that washes over –
always over –
the stones
smoothed in
their stillness
and sitting
on the river
basin floor;
one snaking
curve in the
ambling river
to yield itself
and all its
water
crashing; tumbling
over the edges
into places the
mind of man
had hoped and planned
it should not go.
It is in one small
instance of time;
one small
and whispered secret
of a sentence about the
full and summary
meaning of all life
and its intricacies
that little bits
of nothing
carry away the
all and everything.
It is in that
small and simple
place on
space and time
that everything
is nothing
and everything
at once.
A sassafras
creeps itself
deeper into dirt;
deeper into earth-soil
and finds contentment
in the slow moving
growth of roots
that crack a rock
with dank and loamy
root-beer aroma.
A clover rises
to the sky
showing off
its glorious purple
tendrils filled
with fragrant
sweetness.
The fulcrum
of the entire cosmos
is levered against
the infinitesimal
wispiness the
soul and its
simple
ineffable nods
of the affirmative.
An “ah-ha”
can stretch
itself
into the furthest
reaches of the galaxy.
The smallest
of hands can
obscure the
greatest of mountains.
Quasars are built
on the same stardust
that supports
the data for this very
thought –
this one
right now –
and the
mitochondria
on the end of
a lash
just below
the eye.
One
is
enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment