I learned an ancient word today.
Such a beautiful, sad word:
There are those who, in their quest for reality,
See only the wound, but not the healing skin beneath.
They immerse in the infinite misery that besets us
And cannot open ears or eyes to the speckled joys that also share our world.
The seek-sorrow frowns at delights
And bids you furrow also.
I know those who are so.
Perhaps you do, too.
But may we not be beckoned
By the small, clear, Autumn sky
And the tide of leaves rushing towards us
And the mourning dove’s strange, creaky-winged flight?
Are such glories to be ignored
So that we may not distract from suffering?
Perhaps there is room enough for both
In our unbounded consciousness.
For, in truth, the sorrows need no seeking
And neither do the joys.