Hedonist that I am, sometimes,
I sometimes think
Large things have no substance in themselves.
Two feet from the wall in our hotel room
I gaze at a photo,
Matted and framed,
Black and white,
A field of California poppies
Their fragile petals translucent
With the exact gray of orange.
For a moment I connect.
I don't know
With what or whom,
The poppies, the petals,
The analogy
Between these shades of gray and a field of blossoms,
The artistry,
Or the artist.
But it is solid.
The connection is real.
And small.
Small things are the substance,
The atoms of being:
The common thought,
The held hand,
The shared smile.
Our world is built of tiny bridges.
