As my father’s books said, the world has music.
When it’s private and quiet perhaps
then you hear it: the earth’s topmost garments
in an endless collision, cropping mountains up
from valleys and spilling oceans over land;
starving water from oases and soaking
ancient sand in liquid life.
We live in a single note that to the geologic eye
is not eternity but ephemera, one in a fuller symphony
That plays false notes but leans ever toward beauty.
Careful then, I told our daughter Margaret,
in the mist, who paced about the camp and watched the fire
flicker out against those white wet sheets,
Life consists of these small moments
And nothing more.
About the Poet
Bryan Muir has lived an unremarkable life, spending most of his time in draining careers. He likes to write from time to time and is incalculably lucky that his daughter made his life so meaningful.
For the first time in nearly five years, Vita Brevis is closed for submission. Read the full story here.