Everyone you see, you say to them
Of course you do not do this out loud:
Someone would call the cops.
Still, though, think about this,
This great pull in us to connect.
Why not become the one
Who lives with a full moon in each eye
That is always saying,
With that sweet moon
What every other eye in this world
Is dying to
“Lilacs, False Blue, White, Purple,
Colour of lilac,
Your great puffs of flowers
Are everywhere in this my New England …
Lilacs in dooryards
Holding quiet conversation with an early moon;
Lilacs watching a deserted house; …
Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom,
You are everywhere.”
– Amy Lowell
We plan, we toil, we suffer – in the hope of what? A camel-load of idol’s eyes? The title deeds of Radio City? The empire of Asia? A trip to the moon? No, no, no, no. Simply to wake just in time to smell coffee and bacon and eggs.