"The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly." ~ Richard Bach
Apparently, this is the year for poem fragments, haha.
It's... not much, but oh well. Some poems!
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Once a boy asked me, why so many of them? Isn’t it hard?
And I told him that as we grow up we had chances to fill up our lives with many things that will keep us busy – we will never not be busy it is life and so why not fill it up with love?
***
There are things I remember as I was dying and didn’t know it. I remember making jokes about blood and thanking them for the stupid little things they did, like warm blankets and pushing my gurney and everything else they were supposed to do because I couldn’t do it.
And sometimes I feel embarrassed by what I said – my jokes weren’t funny and my gratitude probably felt silly since they were being paid, after all, to help me. And yet sometimes I wonder if a thank you might be enough sometimes.
***
Buried deep in the snow, the garlic remembered what it meant to be alive. Then the spring came and fragrant shoots popped up through the bed of mulch– undeterred by the frost.
***
I thought I would be sadder this April, and yet all I can think about is that last year, I was dying and this year I am alive and spring has never seemed more beautiful.
***
She is a girl, and yet the thrilling part is not that but rather that she wiggles around and is wonderfully alive with a heart that pulses perfectly.
***
He sets forth, diaper in hand waving it around like a cowboy with a lariat before I tackle him to the ground Victorious.
***
While the turkeys scramble and hide at my approach, the goose only lifts up her neck and hisses like a snake.
Ubi caritas est vera, Deus ibi est.
"The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly." ~ Richard Bach
Should we not walk? On our feet? The ones I now have again? I do like my feet. They are befittingly perambulatory. — Pattern (Rhythm of War by Brandon Sanderson)
