infinitesimal

all the beauty of the spring is not locked within one seed,
the aria is not sung in a single breath;
no single brushstroke pins life to the painting,
nor does one word define the poem.
although, certainly,
the thrum of spring is lesser with each lost seed,
the aria is ruined by the absence of one breath,
the painting, flat without a missing splash of color,
and that last perfect sentence would be better with one more —–

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s