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Earth is a stranger;
a shimmering,
spinning,
stranger
in the universe,
like a silver coin
tossed with a wish
into a river.
Or the way
dogs and cats are
strangers
to us.
Stranger still
that we seldom think
how strange life is,
and instead
invent words
like normal
when
in reality
normal
means dead.
2 comments:
A beautiful, magical poem, with some scintillating lines (the opening line, for example!!) ... but I am not sure I get the ending. Is death the norm (because we are in that state for so long?), and is life only life when it is -- or feels like it's -- strange? A definition of death: when we stop feeling the strangeness of life?
I think that's right. We are dead (emotionally, intellectually) the moment we lose the sense of how strange life is.
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