Saturday, April 01, 2017
Life
Life
The poets write about such things
as if they really mattered.
The son who got run over,
the daughter who got pregnant
at sixteen.
The little brother who
overdosed at twenty.
They still grieve,
cling to the photographs
in between tending to the
grandmother
with dementia
who lives in the back bedroom
because they can't afford
profesional care.
The philosophers tell us
that the great high supervisor
of everything
really does not care about
such trivia,
that it is only
the big things that matter:
worlds crushing into
worlds,
dark holes swallowing
everything nearby,
civilizations emerging
and then vanishing
in the blink of His eye.
But it is these,
the tender minutiae
of our lives
that give us meaning,
that connect us one to each
in this bizarre setting
where we find ourselves,
stranded and alone.
I will keep on calling,
ask how things are going,
bring over a dish from the deli,
offer to give someone
a little time off.
I will keep on trying
to figure it all out,
keep on praying
to "Whoever it may concern."
Dorothy Walters
April 1, 2017
(picture from Hubble site)
