The sun smiles,
forcefully examining the bitterness of the leaves
that have become
crushed under the weight
of the eve’s rainfall.
I look on,
curiously wondering
why the sun seems to give light,
to even the most shattering
displays of nature’s fury.
I am broken, I think.
The sun has never fixed me.
Outside the drops of rain evaporate steadily.
Dew, which once subsided in even the most porous
of surfaces
has all but disappeared,
confronted instead
by a warmth as steady
as the sun is iridescent.
You are an observer, I say.
Callous, cold, and unfeeling.
On the ground two squirrels fight playfully.
An acorn has fallen between the two,
and with quizzical wonderment
I watch as a
stalled fury erupts
into a courtship like dance
of dominator
versus
domineered.
Atleast they have each other, I muse.
Who do you have?
The last remnants of darkness have lifted
and the birds respond with a steady hum.
In their song I hear them say,
serenity, serenity:
this is the world.
I turn my head,
And dropp my gaze
downward.
Serenity, serenity,
Is not the world’s way.
The sun rises fully,
I sit on the ground.
Copyright (c) David DeSantis
This is such a wonderful poem David awesome work. Keep it up.
Hello David. Loved this poem, you put a lot of thought into this one. Good read! LC Taylor
I can understand why this is one of your own favourites, David. You have invested a lot of meditation and awareness to pin down the moment you describe, the train of thought you follow, the images and connections you've formed from a set of small observantions. Small is usually beautiful - your microscopic observation of the warm crushed leaves and the evaporating dewdrops, the temporary aggression between the squirrels (and I love your aside, 'At least they have each other / who do you have? ') Another mature and thoughtful piece of work.
Wow, David, a lot of depth & colour here that makes this exceptional. Thank you.
scerenity, serenity it is not the worlds way. cynical reflection
that was a lotta detailing...and coupled to dat bful usage of words... :)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is a philosophical writing that is actually quite easy to translate. Unlike most writings of this kind. I really appreciate this as a reader. The philosophy also poses a great question that can occupy the mind all evening. I think this is a positive contribution to both the art of writing and philosophy as well. Greenwolfe 1962