There was a day
really there was, really
when youthful idealism brought forth visions
of a transformed world
which is not bad, in itself
in fact, if no one ever painted such a portrait
it would surely never come
But one day, along the road
the whole world got too big
and shrunk to part of it
one facet of the whole
a geographic miniature
that, I was sure, cobbled
together with every other piece
would do.
The circle grew smaller
at least the realistic circle
until the boundaries were touchable
down to me, mine and maybe yours
and then just the closest sentient beings
I might influence, until
there was just me, myself.
Surely, this world can change
transform, become new, get born
The deeper I dove, the larger
that world, inside, just me, became
until it, too, was out of reach,
an untenable goal that must remain
unfinished, mostly, partially.
Down in the basement of idealism
where the concrete smells musty
a combination of 3-in-1 oil and mold
a single wood shaving curled up
in a corner, saying my name again
and with it, the smallest of seeds,
a new realm grew, but not
looking like the old one, filled
with glory and grand fixes.
This paper thin remnant of a tree
acts like a radium sliver, spreading
its rays around itself in unexpected
ways, directions unanticipated
until the circle started to grow
outward, again, but this time
the way was not grandiose, layered
with equal measures of dubious
outcomes and teaspoons of ego.
This time it grew with some force
of its own, a power with neither pretense
or force, for it was its own force
and in it was life, and that life was
hope, which is always sufficient, enough
as big as the world which it does
transform, after all, where we began
so very long ago, really.
vitalwholeness 