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
Tags: Books, Daylight, Death, Diaries, Flowers, Honey, Journals, Letters, Light, Night, Petals, Poetry, Pollen, Reading, Stars, Time, Windows, Wings, Words
William Michaelian 
Meine Antwort darauf ist ein wenig anders, aber ich muss es dir schreiben. Der Nachbar weinte bitterlich über seine Bienen. Elf Völker spielen verrückt in ihren Kästen. Es sind die Außentemperaturen, die sie erwachen lassen. Sie werden so oder so sicher sterben, drinnen durch Stress, draußen ohne Blumen….
Das bewegt mich…
Liebe Grüße zu dir von mir.
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And greetings to you, Edith. I’m glad your answer is different. There’s always compassion, understanding, and poetry in your observations.
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So reagiert ein Freund, ich danke dir sehr.
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