Every blade of grass is a masterpiece,
Every white capped wave a bold creation,
Far greater the draw of sea and sunset
than any metropolis, even Manhattan
and all its beads*.

In the spots of a fawn, newborn and spindly
as a sapling in the wind, in the mating call
of cats in spring, as well as in the face
of every child, there is a craftsmanship
unmet by man.

I challenge you to try. What perfection
finds our meager hands? What is your will?
There is genius, and better still, there is joy
in singing in the shower. Song from the soul
is our freedom.

With comets and dreams we compose
our fate, but there is more. The lilac
did not dream its perfume, nor little
controls it and yet it sweetens the evening
with ease.

We are in June now with sun on our faces,
but autumn is coming. There is hope
for a bountiful harvest, and then the winter
with its promise of rest. Come spring’s return
every blade of grass will be a masterpiece,
every white capped wave a bold creation.

Unrelated to the purpose of the poem but in answer to a question
asked regarding the meaning of “Manhattan and all its beads”:
*In 1626 Peter Minuit bought Manhattan island from native Indians for a trunk filled with beads, hatchets, a bolt of cloth and other trinkets, all worth a total of 60 Dutch guilders (about twenty four dollars in American currency of that time.) The interesting thing about the transaction is that Minuit paid the Canarsie Indians who did not live on Manhattan Island. It is unlikely that they had any ownership claim in the first place. I think the whole truth is, Mr. Minuit stole Manhattan Island but he too was scammed.

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