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minute truths
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Revolving
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We continue to whirl past the horizon, too fast now to
make out any landmarks.
It isn't as if being with you will consist of great,
unending infinities of love. It's the ordinary things, the
minutes and seconds that show us the truth. And make us
invisible.
I think of ladybugs, dust motes, of the galaxies that
subatomic particles whirl in. Are subatomic particles just
further planets? Who would live on these worlds? Would they
think of us as we sit and watch tv? No. If they think of us
at all, it is the heroics that matter. Climbing Mt. Everest,
reaching the stars. Understanding the beings that call us
subatomic particles. They wouldn't dream of the
routine, the carrying in the
morning paper, getting the coffee, waking up at two am for a
screaming child.
Truths, charms, beauties I mutter. How can these even
recognize our existence?
You lean toward me. What are you saying, you ask.
Nothing, I answer. Just naming the
worlds that inhabit us.
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