here first. until we are there.

stolen from The Writer’s Almanac

a kinda sweet sappy poem for the my friends (yes!) and the one i shall love.

Beside the Point

The sky has never won a prize.
The clouds have no careers.
The rainbow doesn’t say my work,
thank goodness.

The rock in the creek’s not so productive.
The mud on the bank’s not too pragmatic.
There’s nothing useful in the noise
the wind makes in the leaves.

Buck up now, my fellow superfluity,
and let’s both be of that worthless ilk,
self-indulgent as shooting stars,
self-absorbed as sunsets.

Who cares if we’re inconsequential?
At least we can revel, two good-for-nothings,
in our irrelevance; at least come and make
no difference with me.

“Beside the Point” by Stephen Cushman, from The Virginia Quarterly Review: Spring 2006

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