The Gloriously Mundane – a poem.

Not everything in life has urgency.

It isn’t all about

now now now.

Not everything is important.

The daily crisis just isn’t.

There is no big red button tempting us,

scaring us.

Most of us

don’t have that burden.

Very few of us

would want it.

No.

There’s just us

and where we are right now.

Right here,

in the moment.

With a cup of tea and a spit of milk,

added last, not first,

not too hot, not too cold,

in a china cup, one that dings.

That matters.

A small white flower, blooming bright,

a scent so sweet you just have to find out

the name of the plant.

Jasminum officinale.

That matters.

Sunshine In a clear blue sky,

warming, easing,

eyes closing,

relaxing.

That matters too.

Loving.

Knowing that you are loved.

That matters.

Perhaps that matters the most.

I’m not sure.

But the little things,

the gloriously mundane,

they also matter.

They matter a lot.

Clothes that fit.

Conversation with friends.

The taste of peaches.

The art of Egon Schiele.

Solitude.

The writing of Ernest Hemingway.

Kissing.

Children laughing.

In these small things

lie life’s greatest

little joys.