Ordinary things

Do I write too much
about ordinary things:
sunlight on the lake,
cups of black coffee?
Do you think I ought
to write more about
profound truths or
the mysteries of life?
Well I don’t agree.
For much of a decade
too many of my thoughts,
too many of my moments
were streaked with tears.
I could not see beauty
in the everyday;
I saw only a reflection
of my unhappiness.
I saw only tornadoes or floods
in the dark clouds overhead,
not the gentle rain of rebirth.
In other people I saw
only the imperfectness
of our relationship
not the possibility of love.
Now I begin to see joy
in cups of tea and coffee
and paperback novels
and French toast
and the clearing sky and
yes, even in a really good
thunderstorm with all its
stunning cracks of light.
For there will be plenty
of sunny days, empty skies;
let it rain now and then.
I am in no great hurry
to rush  through my life.
Slow it down, let me savor
the sweet and the bitter,
the chocolate chips
as well as the grounds
at the bottom of the pot.

People have begun to look
beautiful again:
the gray-haired man
striding strong, cocky
across the intersection
pony tail swinging,
the old woman layered
completely in pink and
a giant straw hat, sassy
looking girl smoking
outside the post office,
overweight woman
in too small tank top
and red polka dot shoes,
even the paunchy white
men in shirtsleeves
seem full of stories
waiting to be told.
Perhaps their stories
are not profound:
he finally called his sister
to apologize; she found
those shoes on sale.
But they are real and
they are very ordinary.
And after so many
extra-ordinary
moments of sadness
they seem
a revelation
to me.

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