Pavement and Poems

I could write a hundred poems about pavement and only capture it in some small part, or not at all. Can even a miniscule piece of the earth be tamed by words or fully dissected beneath the probing lens of a microscope? The richness and depth of ordinary grandeur is insurmountable, at least with the fallible tools of the human mind. Yet we brandish those tools as though they have the skill and certainty to unlock unrivalled efficiency. But is it efficiency that has power to delight, that is charged enough to spark joy?

If we slackened our grip on those tools, we might see that we search in the wrong places and for the wrong things. Practicality keeps us grounded and in search of an end; it cannot achieve any end. Whereas wonder is an ascending force and it lifts us above our means. It lifts us even when we stoop to marvel over the cracks in the pavement. And when we wrinkle a puddle of glass with the toe of a boot and see the sparkles of all the sky and sun beneath our feet, is there any end at all but beauty? Is there any place to go other than the placeless, timeless folds of infinity? Eternity is enclosed in the minute, which, when expanded or unearthed, contains the whole of the marvelous, and the purposeless purpose of life.

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