That is what strikes you
in the midst of beauty or the nearness of death.
The details, perfect lines
or the slow tick tock of your timepiece,
a whisp of her hair.
They are what you remember,
a cackle of childish glee,
his last breath,
the feel of the wind in the night.
The details, fleeting in the moment,
objects of a passing glance,
each a vessel of eternity,
About this poem
This morning as she got ready to leave, the woman I love brushed a wisp of hair from her face, a gesture that has become both familiar and endearing. And it brought me to a place of thinking about how the small things in life are not small at all.
Not an original thought, but one worth recalling as we careen through life.
The picture is of an Iranian (Persian) candlestick, part of a larger display of ancient Middle Eastern art at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.