Friday, March 22, 2019

Of pizza and poetry (Day 793)

They knew culture and cowboys, 

pizza and Paris, taciturn deer hunters, 

and voluble librarians.

Theirs was basic fare: nursery rhymes, 

quiet forests, images of renowned 

beauty, predictable and familiar.

What they missed was poetry—

rhapsodic, epic, true, life-saving

—replete with nutrient-dense language, 

packaged in yellowed pages 

and flaking paperback covers, with 

the lethal heft of a Norton anthology.

As their youth subsided, they persisted, 

choosing only each other, embracing 

the silence, forsaking the gilded, 

sirenic allure of the tawdry 

and the social. For years, 

under a deluge of outside influences, 

it seemed they hardly talked at all, 

and ceased to expect the unexpected. 

Until that Tuesday morning, bright 

and crisp as green apples, when they 

awoke to find their own 

long-cherished myth had begun 

to transform the mundane.

All around them, fountains flowed, 

and forests chimed like bells.

Barely breathing, they allowed 

themselves to open the cover, 

allowed the book to fall open, but 

it was only when they sank with relief 

into the everlasting depths 

of those transparent pages, 

that even the taciturn deer hunters 

began to speak in verse.

(c) 2019, by Hannah Six

Image: PxHere

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