The Top of the Marble Steps

I reached the marble steps and at the top the giant ebony doors were swung open, indifferent to any passerby that happened to wander through them.  Fear of this indifference is what kept me out, as long years passed and my hands grew thin, and my eyes' natural posture hunched over.  The days kept me on the riverbanks, looking for rocks to throw, and always noticing the mosquitoes landing on my back.  In certain weeks I found the trees, and at their tops I often dreamt of taking to the wind like otters in the ocean, diving deeper into the atmosphere and surfacing only at times to the soft earth.  But I knew nothing of what lied between those giant ebony doors at the top of the marble steps, because I never ventured to wander in.

When people walk in straight lines they neglect the newness of waves, and when they travel horizontally they only experience the needle of paint that changes colors every hundred yards, and they call it beautiful.  But if I glanced my eyes from the top of the stars to the bottom of the sea and even squeeze myself into the deepest pits of volcanoes, the array of color might overwhelm me with a newness of sight.  But I stand here on the marble steps, and fear keeps me from entering the giant ebony doors at the top.  If light has power to bend, can it change its path and enter with me?

Count the Glitter

When you start to count the glitter in the sky while lying on the hill, do you feel the grass leaves grow around your arms and legs, always pointing straight up?  Do you realize that they offer you help, each one counting one for you?  They can count but they can't speak—but if they could they would shout their ones and fill you with joy—the joy that is felt only when you can feel the millions around you, all working together to help you.  How I long for you to feel it!  Because when I'm not there, and you imagine that you're all alone, I'm thinking about you, the glitter, and the grass, and I long so desperately for you to feel its help, counting the glitter with you in the night.

I'm Going to Die

I'm going to die
And I'm okay with that,
Because so are you.

If I alone were bound to this fate,
The first and last to feel death's icy breath,
My body alone to enter the earth—
In a graveyard of one—
I probably wouldn't be okay with it,
But I'd likely be rather disgruntled.

I'd feel cheated,
Seeing all the children on the playground
Jumping around and squealing—
Knowing that my own jumps and squeals
Would last only a lifetime.

I'd likely spend a lot more time
Thinking about death,
Puzzling over its causes and workings—
Its philosophy and physiology—
Than I do now.

As a child
I probably would have sat at dinner,
Looking down at my plate,
Twisting my noodles with my fork
Around and under
Around and under
In an existential manner.

When I felt enough courage,
I'd look up and ask my silent parents
Why I alone must go
Instead of growing old forever.

They would then look—
Not at me—
But at each other,
With that look of worry
Created from the lack of something profound and consoling to say
When they most needed it.

But since this is not the case,
My mother looks at me across the table
And kindly says,
"Everybody's going to die."
And we all smile at each other
And continue eating.

The Math to Everything

They say there’s a math to poetry that the math men know nothing about.  There’s a math to the universe that will tell why the sky is blue, and blood is scarlet, and the sea changes from black to green to white.  It explains why trees have leaves, and why leaves have lines, and why there are so many or so few.  It explains why the world is a circle when gold grows in squares, the mountains are pointed, and people are almost like stars. Not only does it tell why each rock rests exactly where it does, why each tree sprouted exactly where it grows, and why this grass blade is as dark as a forest while its brother is brown as the sand—but it tells why all of this together, with the white touching the blue touching the brown, black, and green, is more beautiful than anything that could have come from a palette or pencil.

Now I Know

When I was taken outside for the very first time, I saw the sun and it burned holes into my eyes, and the pain filled them with tears.  But now I can see the grass in the ground, and how the green springs from the brown, but only slowly.  Now I know that the roads are smooth and wet when they start, but as they grow old they harden, and crack when the earth shakes.  Now I know that the bats swoop in the dark to catch bugs in their mouths, which they smelled with their ears.  I know that things like honey and webs can be made, but only after hours of hard work—and that things like cardboard and metal are often used in place of wood and stone.  I know now that pigeons gather where the people gather, and that giant squids stay where no one will go.  I know there are indeed flies made of fire, and of butter, and horses and houses and deer.  I know that hummingbirds really don't know how to hum, and that beetles secretly have wings.  I know that when the sky is bright and blue, millions of bright lights are hidden from view, and they only appear after darkness has fallen.  And I know that as things grow old, they begin to die—even the stars—and that the only thing capable of growing young again, though it often doesn't, is the human heart.

My Something

My something
Is not much
But it is a something.

Because His everything
Is everything
To me.

And my something
Is a something
To Him.

If His everything
Allows my something
To be a something,

Then how I must make
Everyone's somethings
My everything.

A Passing Thought

I have been pondering for a long time over how I am to make the most possible use of my life for the good of the world. The scope of the question and its implications is daunting, which makes me tend to shy away from reaching any decisive conclusions. I have read pages upon pages searching for the answer. I live a life that I consider a decent enough back-eddy to keep me while I wait out the answer, before I plunge any farther down the stream to which I am blind. I feel in my yearning heart that my journey is somehow worthy of spectators, when reason scoffs at the suggestion. In the end, I am just another 22-year-old boy, bereft of any noteworthy experience, secretly hoping to one day be one of the men whose life is counted as worthy of being eternally stored between an attractive set of bookends.