Unforgivably Complete

Beautiful and kind and unforgivably complete,
a work of art that cannot move or breathe;
finite and thus unlivably disdained
within a mind that can't conceive
unboundaried release into infinity.

And yet a tiny songbird sings
in trills and thrills of coming days of spring,
heart beating rapidly as tiny wings
compel its being into flight,
no matter day or night or thought,
it soars in an unending drought
within a clarity of airy heights.

Wandering in distances without imagining
what each beat, each move, might mean
unconcerned with what the morrow brings
flowing like a current lightly carrying
softly whispered messages
of springtime harmony.

Oh, spirit soaring out of sight
what realms of pure delight are found
within the course of your meandering?
Do angels really sing sweet songs
of grace that brings the light of dawn to life?
And how and why might we behold
and come to know the meaning
and the worth of all of life
beyond the strife
we've learned to hold so dear?

For the world so often seems to be
beautiful and kind and unforgivably complete
a work of art that barely moves or breathes
massive in its vast command of being
finite and thus unlivably disdained
in minds that can't conceive
its pure unboundaried release
of life and love into infinity . . .

?Michaelette?

12/26/2000
Copyright© 2000 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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