It has something to do
with a happy song playing
on a sullen morning,

or with a masterpiece,
hanging on a museum wall,
that no one pays to see.

It is the grass
on the sodden field outside
that submits itself
to the passing feet
that hurry—or halt—
upon the rainwater puddles
that dry
once the sun
comes out of hiding.

It is the winking of the eye
upon the kiss of the breeze
that subsides when
another one comes—
a silence that is disturbed
by the laughter of children
broken by the cry
of the one toddler hurt
by the piece of twig fallen
after time gave it its age.

It is the daylight
that surrenders to eternity—
giving way to darkness
which, upon melting
in everything,
reduces it to mere shadow.


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