Saturday, September 15, 2007

Life



What is this commotion?
I ponder.

This thesaurus of mistakes,
of laughter,
of tears,
of hopes...
It is that sparrow on the fence,
ruffling her feathers,
at the promise of winter
in the air.
It is I,
watching her from inside
on this rainy day,
with my hot coffee
and my
dark mood.
It is the minute snail
gliding swiftly
on the glass wall
of his tiny world.

We are all the same.

It is life.

7 comments:

Jon M said...

Indeed! Except...snails don't drink coffee...then again, they probably would if you let them!!!
:-)

Taffiny said...

yes.
I shall have to come back and reread, as the volume in my home is too loud for focus.
I like this overlapping of worlds.
for the snail has an epic too.

Minx said...

Snails drink beer and this is not (almost) poetry.

Vesper said...

I'm sure they would, Jon! :-)

We all have a story, Taffiny, or maybe the same...

You're right, Minx, life is no poetry.

colleen said...

Everything is sign for reading. A little bird told me that.

Absolute Vanilla (and Atyllah) said...

words and worlds collide, there you go, a big bang in the making.

shame we forget we're all the same, all part of the same.

Vesper said...

How right you are, Colleen and Vanilla! Beautifully said also - thank you!