I saw a tiny flower once, growing from a crevice in a face of rock.
It was in the mountains, surrounded by a world of spectacle and grandeur
so that you might almost
look past it,
small as it was.
It wasn't there for me.
It had no story.
It didn't care that I looked at it.
It simply was.
But I, being one attracted by seeing, being touched by bright colors
and strange situations,
being one who saw beauty in the struggle of the small
to express itself under adverse conditions (being myself but small,
and often feeling my own conditions to be so)
I was drawn to this flower.
And now I have its picture.
I remember its beauty, just as I remember the beauty of the
great domes of rock,
the cliffs and boulders of ancient granite,
the towering trees reacing their green branches toward the heavens,
the cascades of water
plunging from unimaginable height
to be broken into innumerable
shards before ever they reach their foot.
And I remember this flower with the same fondness that I remember trees and rocks
that were before and will be after I am gone.
Which is greatest?
Shall I compare a symphony to a waltz
Or to a five chime whistle screaming in the night for me to follow?
Can I relate a flower to ancient stone and ever changing water or
the embers of my soul?
c. 8 May 2003
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
I have met Bathsheba.The music has fallen from my lips
And I have been sucked dry.
My soul is a rotted husk
Naked before me.
I have danced this step before,
But even if the poison has left
The hurt freezes me.
I have met Bathsheba
And the weight has fallen from my limbs
Like so much consequence.
The pain is new in every moment;
In every love.
Bathsheba is every woman
And every man
Who has felt heaven's draw.
The psalmist is every singer
Who has lost and suffered.
I have met her.
I would meet her again
Despite the withering cost.
29 January 2007