The perfect taste of simple things,
rising in the heart
long before the mind begins its destructive ordering.
If we should feel small,
then in smallness let us be the greatest insignificance;
and by chance if ever we become a singularity in ourselves
surely we will expand and become the universe.

The shallow fear of simple things,
catching off guard all who wander on paths
stained by longing or painted stones and curiosity.
As though it were our fault
that fault cannot be levied against any one man’s chest and held there… austere, obscure and unyielding.

If only he could clench the guilt for us,
we might gather around and uphold his visage
and proclaim that all blame is forgotten
and now each heart could skip and run and fall and fly
without that weight of despair stringing down our hopeful souls.

The gentle nudge of simple things,
reminding each distraction that real answers and their questions
are always out beyond the solutions we settle into.
And here is the lull in our reason,
the cliff-side fence-post where we stop
to behold the expanse of sighted creation
knowing just beyond leaping is freedom.
We are not stars nor dust
but something shared in between.

The sated pleasure of simple things,
which end and begin out of order
then fade and appear in us just the same.

Here for us pretend pretenders
Here is this a simple ender

We who lose it never seek it
There is hidden here in secret

Wading, fading making sicker
There is time or something thicker

Utter thinly veiled from under
There is more to write I wonder

Only clutched with hands ungrasping
There is now most everlasting

Piercing hunger never settles
There is broth to stove and kettle

Winter washed and nestle warming
There is still a calm a'storming

Not as brittle, cleaner, crisper
There is heretofore a whisper

Error spent for our repentance
There is void dark intermittent

If so then what say all we after
There is all that words can gather

For us the inner interventions
There is only aforementioned

on a napkin
in the fold
out of nowhere
written bold

on a napkin
soaked in pen
lost in wonder
wander in

on a napkin
plans and schemes
draw on dreaming
simple things

on a napkin
cloth and fading
all is forward
all are waiting

on a napkin
lost and found
almost forgotten
written down

i hate the gain of hate in me
your words are broke and breaking free
and is your sight so full of you
that you forgot you're breaking too

old napkins on a wooden desk
fear the future, brave the rest
and now a promise old and blurred
to live the truth of hope deferred

to hear the voice of purest gold
a world not young, a God not old
and in the seeking, lost and found
contrasting hallowed hollow ground