the little things

There is sun in my window this morning and it makes me smile. My wife is buzzing about outside, watering her plants, trying to nurture back to life some that have been brutalized by the recent heatwave. Soon she will leave for her bi-weekly water aerobic therapy. Not much on my schedule for today. What's new on the soup? I read a poem that is sad, melancholy, and I feel it deeply. So much suffering in the world. Little ones being bombed out of existence over land disputes and raging hatred. Just as I am musing on this rather morbid theme, a poetry friend on Facebook sends me a video of a little boy singing a pretty song and I think, "How precious is this young fellow?" And how lucky. He was born in the right place under better circumstances. Some aren't so fortunate. Then I read the poem of the day. It's a light, heartfelt poem telling us all to look for the good in others, and to be happy. My mood suddenly shifts, and I think of all the little things in life that I have to be grateful for, most of them admittedly undeserved. It is in this moment I realize that poetry is life. All the moods, the hopes, the wishes, the frank truths and the hateful lies, the ups and downs of life, all of it. It is we and we are it. Poetry can save a soul or destroy it. Those that have the gift of skillfully weaving words also have an obligation, to tell it like it is. To make us laugh or make us cry. It is humbling and at the same time, liberating. I am... poetry. sunny day delights hot espresso in my cup think I'll skip the news