Poetry
Naiveté
i found out today that the sky
is really made of glass
and all the stars
we see in the night
are just reflections of us.
have you seen the constellations
we’ve built amidst the crumbling dust?
and it only makes sense that the sun exists
by the light that keeps bursting
from our frail hearts.
how else can you explain
the hope that is barely contained?
ever expanding, defying
the entropy of the universe.
i don’t know many things,
but i know that this life is a dream.
only if we allow it to be —
only if we allow ourselves to just be.
so i’ll wait for you by the daffodil river
under the shade of the great pine tree,
where we can sit together
and listen to our laughter float off lazily
upon the early summer breeze,
as we watch the golden petals return
to the arms of the diamond sea.
will you sit here with me?
The title of this poem is meant to be ironic. Does your interpretation of it change knowing this?
