the beautiful foolishness of things: 2009

132

when wandering
through her gardens,
being overwhelmed,
few ever noticed
that her flowers
didn't seek the light
—they manifested it.

131

unable to count all the world's sorrows
she turned to counting its joys.

130

not needing words
she would inscribe
all the world's joy and suffering
upon trembling waters.

129

if lost
often she could be found
lingering between things,
less two shores than a gulf
within which she would idle
in wonder.

128

another of her secrets,
of which there were many and few,
was for each to remain
the light entwined.

127

caught in a web of crystal
the butterfly of her thoughts
had ceased to tremble.

into each outstretched palm
she would drop a seed;
which they would then bury
in their own personal dark,
and from which unfurled
the blossoming light.
its roots, however,
would remain invisible,
thrust deep into the loam.

125

unbound herself,
she reflected all equally;
though one would only need
to dip beneath the surface
to be free of any illusion
—even that of one’s prison.

124

even those who felt trapped
could thrive;
for the dark, too,
was but another facet
of her light.

123

multitudes,
both as a whole
and each individual separately,
could be held in a single embrace.

.
.

122

all things
were bathed
in the glow
of her desire.

.
.

121

one of her many secrets was that the refuge sought
by those who felt the need to withdraw
was actually no other than that readily granted
to all those who remained immersed in the everyday.

.
.

120

being boundless,
many had the impression
that she was homeless.

yet her door was always open
—even to them.

.
.

119

hers was a familiar darkness.

.
.

118

by hiding,
she revealed herself.

.
.

117

some found it necessary to weather the storm
when the light rained down in a torrent,
and so sought shelter in the shade.
others, even if blinded, remained
until sodden with light.
and then there were those rare few
who seemed to be washed away
as easily and completely as their shadows...

.
.

116

of course there was a beyond.
yet it could only be found
by scrutinizing those things,
so often overlooked,
lying close at hand.

.
.

115

the errant too
would stumble upon her,
though unknowing
they often remained.

.
.

114

there was never any need for tears
for the earth wept skyward.

.
.

113

resting in her shadow,
it was the little things
which tended to be
the most certain.
.
.

112

some spoke of having met her once,
others of their closeness and familiarity,
yet it was the mute who tended to provide
the surest glimpse.

.
.

111

wherever her gaze fell
another altar would be found.

.
.

110

the fearless discovered
that there was no shore—
she would always remain
fathomless
and without horizon.

.
.

109

for some life became so overwhelming
that they resorted to pleas
which they mistakenly thought were left unheeded;
while the fortunate simply realised
that the sky was an answer in itself.

.
.

108

unbounded
by the lines of existence,
she would always remain.

.
.

107

before those who least expected it,
it was in her nature to swell
in the spaces between.

.
.

106

each thing
was but the shadow
of her care.

.
.

105

one could never tell
on which side of the fence
her garden stood.

.
.

104

yielding,
she would achieve
the unachievable.

.
.

103

when mute
the murmur of the leaves
would give voice
to the unspeakable.

.
.

102

for those haunted
by the spectre of their tears
each sob was an unintended prayer,
which she would string upon a garland
of the most beautiful sorrow.

.
.