Gravity speaks of distribution

While putting away the dishes

in my tiny kitchen,

I recalled over-hearing 

the man say to the girl

'Your eyes were bigger than your plate'

And now I was stacking the plates,

sorting large and small,

thinking how they were all made the same

Each one designed to hold only so much

And the inevitability

Of each one taking a turn

At the bottom,

bearing the weight 

Of all 

The others 

And never cracking.

With the dishes put away,

I look through the glasses

Thinking of the right size

for my eyes

Hearing the tiny echoes

Of gravity 

And thirsting for more. 

Painting by Joannes de Cordua (1630-1702), 'Still life with copper dishes' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Written in stone

All in 

One moment

I understood the

Buddha's parable about walking

with a stone in your shoe-.

I suddenly knew

It could happen to anyone

Anytime 

and after inspecting the painful

if minuscule annoyance

I found the stone

Made of calcified fragments, merely

Memories compressed and pushed out

like bone spurs sloughed off 

and re-attached to thought

Like a tumor.

Every step, someone else's shoes -

That was

Us

Now all that is left

is the loose stone

from the right shoe. 

Painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919), 'Woman tying her shoe' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

What was the question?

Time, like money, isn't tangible 

Neither is love, truth and what

is real-

made up, rounded off, different

for you and I-

what is real...

And yet, some

times

are frozen or elapse slow

and many too fast to enjoy

Enough-

What about dusk-sunset 

or dawn, or the times

I look at the clock and it's the same

Times-day and night.

Well, what about a pastime or a memory,

Truth be told from one 

person in a place with

Nothing-

is real

for you-for anyone...

Do blessings count?

Photo of Woman at spinning wheel in Studeno na Blokah, Slovenia taken August 1962 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.