A Celebration of Sorts
Sometimes, when days seem the same old song,
look to the time signature and change the rhythm-
it’s good to add a fold or a new color, or borrow some spice from a neighbor down the lane.
Connections, like synapses, naturally clamor for more, or else turn ashen
and then turn absently to daydreams or commercials for notions-
but the great machine is a terrible winnower of truth and fit in the sweeping turn
from peak to peak, from flashing sun to flushing moon past factories, museums, shipyards, and schools.
Like a pass through otherwise impenetrable heights, though,
home is the finest fertile seedbed for the familiar
because without milk, absent grains, stripped of every other staff,
behind every consumer is the secretly consumed, a center beaten and stirred to hesitant recollection,
loosely connected within octaves chordant like luminous spectrums and hands full of plush, crumbling loam-
and before this regenerated ground lies constancy and folds of neglected color
while beneath, new roots move in soil coaxed from a previously stagnant, darting gloom.
And again we sing from the selfsame gut we forgot since so very young,
when last the deep dread of loss yet crowded sweet dreams;
It’s good to remember that like undated cream past its prime will bloat and be tossed whole into the landfill,
plenty can quickly pass from good to gone.
Feeling those old fears turn to fertile ground, sing and plant anew,
and straight rows make next to accidental orchards pruned just in time; growth by slow accrual.
After all else is said. it’s a miracle just to be loved.