Nothing more real

I said I will extract myself from this world,
for all its anger and deceit and daily carnage.

I said look at what’s happening:
worse than the prelude of the great atrocities.
Have we learned nothing from a past
that squats beneath a mere inch of dust,
easily stirred up under a parade of boots?

And when I rose to consider the business of checking out
the phone sounded:
It was my niece with her small daughter,
calling to wish me a glad birthday,
telling me about their day,
telling me about the first snow.

And through that small screen I saw the child race
to the picture window, hop, shimmy and twirl,
in the untamed way of all children. 

And through her
I heard the snow settle on the playground across the street,
smelled the loamy mix of wet grass and sodden leaves,
saw the edge of the river hill turn white
while a dense line of shrubs slipped under a thin quilt. 
And through the cover of cloud the invisible sun
suffused a gentle light on the crowns of trees,
trees that now seemed full of their own light,
their gowned limbs lifting as though given to praise.

And I said there is nothing more sacred than to be here,
grounded in the hope of a hallowed moment.
Nothing more real.

20 Comments

  1. I have been considering checking out of this world.
    Perhaps not today.
    Thank you Stephen for your precious way with words.

  2. In my work, what keeps people here is profoundly more interesting than anything that might persuade them to extract themselves.

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