Any moment
can be momentous,

passed without comment. . .

or marked with staked claim
by a high-up mount tent. . .

or festering where troubling foment is,

on worthless dirt of barren land
or in a Penthouse,

when no one cares
just what we do,

or when all the Earth
comes forth
to cheer us through,

though maybe
we’ll stand stupidly,
when comes the voice that calls us up
for we’ve become the panel’s choice,
and they have clearly named our name,
because of something we have done
for which the Universe has sent us. . .

but, prejudiced,
our vision just can see
this moment only apt to be,
compared to others,
just the same,
while we kept
our eyes and ears
low down,
in just the way
that gravity had bent us. . .

thus nearly missed
our startling turn
for celebration and celebrity–
for really no idea had we,

until, at last,
they parted our thick reverie
to tap us gently on the back
and tell us
that, in fact,
they meant us.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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