A sliver of Truth

Rubix McCube

It’s the little things really, that no one else notices, that no one else knows about, that only she even considers, even of for but a moment.

The details that the world passes over, like wildflowers on the side of the interstate, a blur of pleasant color,

A smear on the eye of the driver, rather than the delicate hues and individual blooms upon each and every stem,

Seen but not observed, known but not understood, taken for granted if even acknowledged at all.

It’s the little tiny particulars, the strands of cosmic DNA, the tributaries of spirit and thought that she conjures an open window to see,

The little things that the others find strange, the odd little tid-bits that escape understanding, or notice in the eyes of the world,

A strange collection no doubt, of ideals and standards with a creative and out modeled application, contrasting starkly yet merging almost perfectly,

Seen as a displace note or chord out of time and key, the dissonance almost staggering yet somehow fitting in my own strange upside down and backwards sort of way.

It’s the little details like cooking, or cleaning without fear or loathing, or the thrifty ideas that come into play everyday in their own little way,

The things like keeping old shoes, or putting off buying clothes, shopping for bulk and economy that they don’t see or understand in any real way,

A choice to work in a field, where life and limb might be risked, with a carefree yet keen mindset that always come into play, the worry and goals never conflicting as much as the dreams only she knows in a way,

Seen as questionable or brash, or desperate or crass, wading through the childlessness of humanity day to day, she still understands and sees the truth, and supports the effort, taken for granted if even acknowledged at all.