On the Tossing of Scales

A pound of feathers equals a pound of iron,
all somehow the same,
a balancing of the scales,
a strange assurance that everything can be measured.

What then to do with love? How is that measured?
Is it? Should it be?
Or compassion. Or the admiration of beauty?
Or beauty itself?

Why then is it that we try to measure everything,
compare feathers to iron in some way,
a strange and deadly compulsion
when the most important things are not measurable,
despite our best misguided efforts?

About this poem

The world we live in is determined to measure or compare everything. And often we do it to ourselves more brutally than the world around us. Don’t ask why I love you. I do. Don’t ask why I think you are wonderful. You are. Your beauty. Your life. Your heart is uniquely yours and worthy.

Mine too, when I remember to let it be.

Preaching to myself again.

Tom

PS: the picture is from the American Farm Museum in Cooperstown, NY.