PROGRAM

Here’s one for ya:
There is more beauty in a single day on Earth than in our entire collective history of depicting it. 
Whether that’s a matter of belief or truth is up to you. 

Quit peeking through your fingers! Indulge a bit. 

Show me the most generous definition of beauty you got, and I’ll show you mine.

The librarian’s ankle brace,
A produce man named Socrates,
Our old tree’s shade,
What about Clark and Alberta, who fell in love sniffing pies on the same windowsill.

The bravest ladybug,
A galloping mother finally sees her daughter in stride,
Forgotten rocks in their familiar position,
Miss Opal’s cloak of missing buttons,
Something you’re not afraid to beg for.

   Go ahead, we’ve both been bit by bigger dogs.

Dolmas and pink lemonade in the nude,
Familiar blouses over neighboring banisters,
Warm spoons finally bending,

The Best Smelling Puddle.

And I haven’t even opened my file on tambourines or saxophones.

This certainly isn’t a convenient line of thinking. Contradictory almost. 
The narrow focus of wide eyes.
Indulging the irrationalities of admiration right in the tight face of practicality.

There    goes    Ruth   on    her    orange     bicycle!

Praise beyond locution.
Secrets for anyone listening.
Faint direction for the enormity of tomorrows.
The heights of imagination surpassing the ceiling of convenience. 

Only a dreamer could’ve invented The Wave.

The man in Oskaloosa, who tipped his cap to me and said, 
“What we’re makin’ ain’t a checklist. If it is then we’re dead.”

So dance with us,
and let this freaky patina turn not to rust.