Pieces written about my life float through my mind
onto paper, peppering the page with perceptions past
and present, others involved likely recalling disparate
details known as fact to them, and this is the timbre
and rhythm as we try and understand another's
viewpoint whilst holding on to our own version
of events, causing far more difficulties in dialogue,
requiring stating and restating, attempting to gain
clarity in seeing the other more lucidly and still
some lack the patience to truly grasp the heart
of the matter, matters of the heart;

Why can't we be like the vast ocean,
or the spreading fields now pleasantly dotted
with wildflowers of every hue, taking our cues
from nature as the breezes dance and mingle,
clearing the mind, cleansing the palate
to make ready for a sweet conversation
in which we both enjoy engaging?

You know it's there, deep inside,
because pleasantries are for the image conscious,
nodding yes when they mean something other
or more, a thing far too complex to curtail
into a sound bite; we need to take time,
give space to concepts that seem inadequate
and yet, weaving stories is like weaving
tapestries or should be, selection of colors
and textures and the rhythm
required to satisfy the teller of tales.

Desdemona - David Austin Rose - bj 2023