The perfect taste of simple things,
rising in the heart
long before the mind begins its destructive ordering.
If we should feel small,
then in smallness let us be the greatest insignificance;
and by chance if ever we become a singularity in ourselves
surely we will expand and become the universe.
The shallow fear of simple things,
catching off guard all who wander on paths
stained by longing or painted stones and curiosity.
As though it were our fault
that fault cannot be levied against any one man’s chest and held there… austere, obscure and unyielding.
If only he could clench the guilt for us,
we might gather around and uphold his visage
and proclaim that all blame is forgotten
and now each heart could skip and run and fall and fly
without that weight of despair stringing down our hopeful souls.
The gentle nudge of simple things,
reminding each distraction that real answers and their questions
are always out beyond the solutions we settle into.
And here is the lull in our reason,
the cliff-side fence-post where we stop
to behold the expanse of sighted creation
knowing just beyond leaping is freedom.
We are not stars nor dust
but something shared in between.
The sated pleasure of simple things,
which end and begin out of order
then fade and appear in us just the same.