Sunday, October 4, 2015

Unimportant Details--A Poem

Unimportant Details

There are some who say that life is...
A synonym for prose and practically.
And it is.
But nonsense puts color into existence and the poetry into prose.
A blooming cherry tree is not just prunus avium, it is the winter queen arrayed in her snowy summer costume.
The sun is not a ball of burning gases; it is a warm friend who streams through my window.
And a baby is not a fetus; it is a tiny miracle and a vast overture of life.

There are some who say that life is...
A scientific fact--the earth is round.
That is so.
But may my years sail on, not in dull circles, but in harrowing adventure until at last I plunge in ecstasy from Terra's rim to the next world.

There are some who say that life is...
A mathematical equation--one plus one equals two.
It is true.
But to me, numbers create rhythm for beauty and were made to herald the beginning of a music staff. 
In my imagination, I see a One waltzing tot he strains of a solitary violin. Then another One bows eloquently and they dance a duet as the viola begins it's harmony.

There are some who say...
"Poetry is very nice, but life is not that way."
What is life then?
A ceaseless, uphill trudge among thorns and stones? A soundless concert?
Look again, through a child's eyes and perhaps you will recollect that red is not a blot of paint, but the color of autumn leaves and apples.
Look again, in an hour of sadness, and you will remember that tears are diamonds, sorrow is myrrh, and death is only a door.
Look again and never cease to look for the silly unimportant particulars, because they are what matter most.  They change the thorns to roses, the stones to gold.
That there is a silver path across the water, leading to the moon.
That castles in the clouds are an everyday necessity.
That you can learn to fly.
That romance is a reality.
And it is.
That is so.
It is true.

10-21-95

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