The Meadowlark


You don’t have to be on the Grand Tour

underneath the Sistine Chapel,


on a beach in Provence, out in nature,

or anywhere except in the realm of your imagination.


Yet every second counts, ticks the clock,

sings the meadowlark, says the beating of your heart


with the virtuosity of Paganini,

simply by knowing what it knows.


There is no reason to go anywhere at all.

But if you do, notice every detail.


The way Michelangelo created his paintings

to reach out larger than life only to you.


The way the waves on the beach bow

before sacrificing their bodies on the shore.


The way the Red Squirrel slides through

the Ponderosa Pine as it parts for her.


The way the Black Capped Chickadee sings

as it flies downward on a slant.


The way the sun feels on your face

as you smell the vanilla of the running sap.


You can tell your story to the whole world

and it will tell you its story.


The only thing you have to do is listen,

and speak from your own special place.

~ by dianeklammer on March 14, 2013.

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