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Yours to Divine

There are greater poets than I,

Who can cross a shimmering bed of leaves

Without a sound.*

Greater writers are there also,

Who stories teach us who we are,

Or who we might have been.

Even though I play defly upon strings

Lesser I am to prodigés and perfectionists.

My music is drawn from a million melodies

already composed.

Perhaps after death (when I decompose),

Will from me new music spring?

My philosophy-talk is good for French cafés

But is but bird talk on the shoulder of a great mind.

I add my dash of joie de vivre to daily cuisine,

But to the great chefs I take off my toque.

My strengths are infused with softness.

I am sensual beyond good sense,

romantic with no cure in sight.

I am a creator, an entrepreneur,

Systems-thinker, problem-solver,

Chief executive of little castles in the sand.

An urbanite, a nature boy,

A basketballer, a tree-climber,

A dreamer, a mystic.

A nomad, an aristocrat.

Both Jew and Gentile,

Wandering west, returning east.

An insatiably curious mind,

but a sorry excuse for a scientist.

A pretend-to-be sportsman,

A wish-I-could-have-been dancer.

Wanting to laugh, but forgetting my jokes.

An aesthete, an epicurean,

A solitary soul and a socialite,

a this and a that,

A mess of contradictions?

Or the equilibrium of all extremes?

Am I a potency for all possibilities

(like an undifferentiated cell?)

Am I the new man for a new age,

made whole by woman?

I am all this, but what does it matter?

In the end, there is only one thing

at which I am beyond compare,

only one hour for my magnificence,

but this is yours, not mine, to divine.


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