There’s not one thing in this wide world that’s shunned by life or overlooked — no blade of grass, no grain of sand, no rock or shell, no ocean wave, no gull, no tree, no sun, no moon, no snail. Each, in its given way and time, trembles and is known; each sways and nods and bows; each is part of a timeless dance, even in its temporary death and return as something else. It’s a celebration, nothing less. And yet somehow a man can turn his back on this; he can shun his own; he can punish, kill, and die alone. I don’t say it’s right or wrong, good or bad, or even sad. He, too, is part of the dance. What appears to be out of step now, is but a small part of this grand choreography.
May 14, 2021
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Abundance, Celebration, Dance, Death, Diaries, Gratitude, Journals, Life