poem

 PortholeLove is a portholeIn the giant iron boxWe ’ve all been born into First you find a portalTo see what everyone else sees:This is a treeThere ’s a squirrelThis, we call a streetAll that above is blueWhile below we call green Millions of tiny gapsIn the firmament Of isolated lookingnessGazing out on the worldAgreeing on a languageThat is cold and precise While love is sharing a viewFrom a single small windowWith someone like youWhere I can sayYou know, the grass Today has a purplish hueDusted with splashesOf blooming clover And you touch my handIn a gesture of assent   Which means:Yes my love,I see that too 7/2/22

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - July 3, 2022 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs