Loving life
January 3rd 2008 08:06
I spoke to a poet once. I told her I write poetry.
She asked if she could see some, and she would show me hers.
I happily obliged, as I want to share my paintings
And the things that I see, those that are in my world.
She avoided me for a while. She was published
In a national newspaper. I have only rejections; but perseverance.
When she finally spoke about my work she thought that I was in love.
I was in love, and I was writing about love, but about life.
I was writing about loving life, about living with the immensity of death.
Of knowing that life is what is now, and that it will pass.
Of knowing that falling in love, and with life, is potent.
I was in love with life, and she could not see it.
She thought it was sweet, though she avoided telling me.
Life is about love, about falling in love, about being in love,
And about loving, not only others, but life itself.
She asked if she could see some, and she would show me hers.
I happily obliged, as I want to share my paintings
And the things that I see, those that are in my world.
She avoided me for a while. She was published
In a national newspaper. I have only rejections; but perseverance.
When she finally spoke about my work she thought that I was in love.
I was in love, and I was writing about love, but about life.
I was writing about loving life, about living with the immensity of death.
Of knowing that life is what is now, and that it will pass.
Of knowing that falling in love, and with life, is potent.
I was in love with life, and she could not see it.
She thought it was sweet, though she avoided telling me.
Life is about love, about falling in love, about being in love,
And about loving, not only others, but life itself.
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