A falling star — a petal bright, from the flower.
Some books I leave open, so that during daylight hours, I can read a few lines from them in passing. Diaries, journals, letters, poetry, too — and it’s all poetry, beginning with the light coming in through the window. Or call it pollen, or honey, because the words coat the wings, and sweeten the tongue.
How many things represented by the words in the preceding paragraph were unknown to us in our primitive past? (I almost wrote long ago, but the span of a few hundred thousand or millions of years is really only the blink of an eye.) Hours. Books. Lines. Diaries. Journals. Letters. Poetry. Window. This leaves us, roughly, with daylight, honey, sweeten, and tongue. And wings — let’s not forget wings.
The night sky, where it isn’t intruded upon by artificial light — will I finally see it before, or after, I die?
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Categories: A Few More Scratches