I was up north this weekend, most likely for the last time this year. Here is a poem inspired by my trip.
Nostalgia
The cry of beauty is too often silenced
in homes with more TVs
then children.
Crying grates on us.
We prefer broadcast news.
Here is a newsflash–
Babies were not made to cry.
“What’s that?” you say.
“How can that be?”
you miss the point.
You missed the yellow-gold
aspen leaves fluttering against a
blue sky.
You missed the bees completely,
and were happy you did.
You missed beauty’s cry for attention.
Rain simply justifies staying indoors.
I think this place is a poem
you don’t get
and I miss