DECEMBER REVERIE
While everything flows with the sweet smell of the breath of time,
I listen to the rustling of the leaves in the high noon sun.
And because it was December the silence was broken by the blast
Of homemade cannons, splitting my ears while gripping my heart.
A strange thought occurred to me that the supposed whirling
Of the electrons around the nucleus of the atom no one has ever seen.
What we see is the solidity of things so we can touch and even smell them.
And so they become real as we suppose them to be.
But all these like chameleons change after the passing of each day.
Are they really what they are when nobody is looking as Berkeley would love to say?
Do we not while awake spin a deeper mystery that even the wildest
Dream never managed nor dared to play?
For in truth waking or dreaming is not equipped with the power to see
The core of reality. Both stand mute and aghast at the mystery
That grows even deeper with each passing day. Is it not far better
To slumber in the depths of the womb of a dream than to be awake and walk
In ignorance under the shadow of the valley of death?
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