Admission of inconsequence

Every now then I think

that I should write about something

of more moment –

of passion or drama or tragedy.

But I can’t seem to see more than I see.

The color of red plums,

the taste of cold milk,

a light breeze on my forearm.

Oh, things do get bigger than this for me.

When I think of you, for example.

It takes but a heartbeat

and for me the earth moves,

but that hyperbole really won’t much do.

At most there might be a tremor in my eye, a tear.

I supposed that I have some difficulty

with telling the whole truth,

although my intent is usually in the right direction.

And drama and tragedy still lurk,

though others will describe things in their way.

I don’t believe that my passion is so small.

I only tend to speak of smaller things

and from my close perspective these things are all –

sometimes more – than I can take in.

So I will continue to look at what moves me.

I take to heart the old advice:

write about what you know.