De Rien
A book laid by …
left open at the page where you last were reading,
face down.
A story that started so promisingly
but now, gathering dust,
neglected until the time when
there is nothing more to amuse;
until boredom causes you to reach for it
when you casually remember it is there,
unfinished
but like a faithful lover,
it waits.
Does it care
that you are no longer entranced by the riches it holds?
That the pleasure it once gave now bores you?
That you no longer have the lust to discover its secrets?
And
what of its beauty you once found so bewitching?
You have gazed on it long enough that it is now commonplace
to you.
Ah, how it longs for you to pick it up and once again partake
If you would but give of yourself time and curiosity
You would be reminded of what passed before
And find still innumerable pleasures
to soothe delight arouse beguile
and make you smile.
Instead, how patient it must be
awaiting tedium to take hold of you,
returning on your terms only
so you might feign interest,
giving it a cursory glance
for a minute or two.
Nothing of consequence.
Like the dandelion …
ephemeral fluff
awaiting your breath
to denude it
copyright 2007