What difference does it make—
this corner or that?
This window or the next?
You, my Eve,
or a dot in piles of grist,
a speck repeating
in butterfly wings,
here, there,
woven in the curtain
between now and omnipresence?
A dot in a panorama,
immeasurable, pressing on my chest,
or a rain stain
on glass
that mirrors my tears,
whipped by the clock’s lash?
What difference does it make—
which bench I sit on,
watching the pages of the seasons flip,
this autumnal rage,
these burnings,
the last explosions of green,
buzzing under skin
that germinates?
What difference does it make—
from where this beauty pours,
into my heart,
or any heart
my heart clings to?
Countless others have seen it—
from countless angles,
in time, in space.
We share this beauty.
We watch this movie.
Different settings, different casts.
A glimpse into collective consciousness:
a glow,
flames molding, shifting,
dances, danseuses,
twilight penumbra,
togetherness, separation.
Melancholy digs into happiness.
Beauty steals our breath,
acts as oxygen,
wows and saddens us—
because we know
the luxury of beauty
is a reminder
of its ending.
