There once grew a flower
in a high, rocky place -
incongruent perfection
adrift amidst the waste.
From the jungles,
to the forests,
to the gardens,
to the fields,
there's never been a thing, scene or being
that could compete with the radiance
of the little flower’s face.
If the world had known
of the beauty in that place,
every living thing that could
would make the pilgrimage to taste,
just a moment of perfection,
just a moment that would make
every ugly thing
in this wide world worthwhile.
It would have been clear
to anyone who saw,
that the purpose of it all -
all the summers,
all the winters,
all the springs,
all the falls,
all the peace
and all the war,
all the love
and all the hate -
was to create the conditions
that would bring
this thing
to life.
...if only for a day.
Commentary
As individuals, we often imagine ourselves as the stars of our own little dramas, with everyone else standing in as supporting characters and background actors. As humans, we similarly tend to put our species at the center of the story of the universe, imagining that everything happens for a reason, which, naturally, revolves around us. We do this in spite of the fact that we have existed in the vastness of time for less than a metaphorical blink of an eye, and we exist in the vastness of space as specks on a metaphorical mote of dust.
In this poem I attempt to violate the assumption of our centrality, presenting the possibility that yes, there is (or was) a reason for everything, and that that reason has absolutely nothing to do with us. Remembering one's place in the grand scheme of things can be a daunting - and liberating - exercise.