Momentary
The objects of the moment accumulate.
I bought a magazine that looked interesting
until I got it home. I bought a book,
and it sits on my desk half-read.
I refuse to throw out the fountain pen
that never worked.
Some museums collect such objects.
Their shelves hold pink knitted hats,
dropped during a MeToo march:
the memories left at war memorials
and effluvia bought at yard sales.
They sit on shelves like poets who
have had their fifteen minutes of fame.
Our performances are forgotten,
and our books are half-read.
The moment turns, and the instant fades.
Today, the sun is warm, and plants
send forth fruits and flowers.
Pollen and nectar assure good seeds,
their message to the future.
The objects of the moment accumulate.
I bought a magazine that looked interesting
until I got it home. I bought a book,
and it sits on my desk half-read.
I refuse to throw out the fountain pen
that never worked.
Some museums collect such objects.
Their shelves hold pink knitted hats,
dropped during a MeToo march:
the memories left at war memorials
and effluvia bought at yard sales.
They sit on shelves like poets who
have had their fifteen minutes of fame.
Our performances are forgotten,
and our books are half-read.
The moment turns, and the instant fades.
Today, the sun is warm, and plants
send forth fruits and flowers.
Pollen and nectar assure good seeds,
their message to the future.
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