On those too-rare occasions when I pause
And see and listen just beyond the whirl
Of dollar-chasing, or “amusement’s” hectic swirl,
I know that our philosophers have cause
To feel we are descending to the jaws
Of utter crassness. It makes my hair curl
The way we cannot grasp the splendid pearl
Of melody–this earth, despite its flaws.
God, make me look, and let me, looking, love
The smallest flower to bloom in early spring;
The star that flickers winter nights above
Me; fireflies that summer evenings bring.
When I can’t find the time to learn the song,
God grant me strength at least, to hum along.
by Ray Romine Monday, January 7, 1952