Delicate blossoms fill the air with song

whether we hear the notes or not.

 

A subtle breeze rustles the petals

that flutter and fall like snow

ever so lightly on the ground.

 

Bees drum their wings

and pause to land and sip nectar,

rising and stumbling in funny movements.

 

I flutter along the path of spring’s virtuous web,

and skim of a stream full of promise and light

as a butterfly might, ever so lightly.

 

For my part of the story

I finish the draft of a blissful love poem

and flourish.

Stephen Cipot

Garden City Park

 

Author’s note: This poem appears in Korean Expatriate Literature (Volume 28, 2024, without the photo.

I had not intended to submit a poem this week, but instead to unwrap a new non-fiction essay, however, I couldn’t sleep last night.  The horrible unspeakable news and images from Butler, Penn., continually flashed through my head in an unending nightmarish loop.

In these deeply troubled times, I tend to say I am not surprised by the maleficence and evil we ever face, but, in truth, I am nearly always surprised.  Depravity fills many voids.  This is our life, the incontrovertibly storm in which we find ourselves, though it is hardly news.  We are all impacted.

I thought the poem appropriate, in essence, a small reprieve or little “storm” about beauty.

In addition, I also find the calligraphy of the poem’s Korean translation in KEL another form of beauty if not included here.  And though complex and I don’t understand, its beauty is a welcome clarity, both acknowledged and felt.

When it comes to complexity, I am reminded that Einstein said: “God is subtle, not malicious.” He also said nature conceals her mystery by means of essential grandeur and complexity, not by cunning.  He called that beauty, and the complexity of the cosmos beauty, as well as infinite.

Einstein of all people understood we live in the moment of complex detail and intricate emotion.

Wrapped and unwrapped in the texture of our life as we know it.  The wonder is beauty, despite the grotesque horrors we face.  In the end, we are the creators of cunning and evil.  Hence the poem, for what it’s worth.