All the pleasing useless items
hedging their bets that they
take precedence, lined up along
walls or closets, at attention on shelves
and bunched in summer’s spark
these objects playing at art, their
hollow meanings ascribed by those
too restless, with avarice or adoration
and how can possessions claim prominence?
What makes the parade of belongings so winsome–
temporal natures proffering importance,
their attributes heightened when placed amid
life’s cracks and repairs, we so arrogant, faithless?
Why must this small thing with heft in hand seem a treasure?
We are directed to acquire and we obey easily, choices
a surrender to ragged need of relief. Or simple delight.
We bring so close what fails to stir us deeply,
as if the material world is what saves us.
Which we know will most often
discard us with no backward glances.
I survey decorative items chosen and gifted,
at ease in place despite my pondering.
Often their loveliness is facile,
turns heavy and dull, the room more lonely.
I note: let no thing enter that is not real. Wanted.
But there is a finer matter: human spaces shared.
A life opened, remade with the touch of a hand.
When beckoned by a call, stillness rippling,
I scoop up this blooming peony-soft being
that fits here without thought,
warm against my chest,
eyes round with no blame or insouciance
mouth void of duplicity or meanness
and the breadth and width of the whole world
empties and refills with inestimable value.
This moment and place I belong to earth
becomes infinite as I belong to her.
Any praise uttered cannot
state enough truth
so she sighs and chirps,
speaks for me,
an expectancy of and
a claim upon love.