My pain, my amazement, my very smallness, overwhelm me
At moments in life, not always significant; at least not at the time.
But what can we know of greatness when the oak is still an acorn?
Did Einstein’s mother neglect her right to irritation
knowing that he would expand E=Mc2 from the wall to cosmic proportion?
Did Mozart’s father ever tell him to put the damn pans back in the cupboard?
Did De Vinci know he was monumental, or did he feel he was the manic/depressive
His friends probably thought him to be?
Could cummings have written about the bitter hands of winter as lovingly as he did of spring?
Or is it all, perhaps, just patience, good weather, and historical luck?
Not that I’ll ever be more than a woman wishing for well-loved, a mother long-loving,
And a mortal enduring. But some days, most days, that is enough.
For those few that it is not, I write; if not always well, at least honestly.
At moments in life, not always significant; at least not at the time.
But what can we know of greatness when the oak is still an acorn?
Did Einstein’s mother neglect her right to irritation
knowing that he would expand E=Mc2 from the wall to cosmic proportion?
Did Mozart’s father ever tell him to put the damn pans back in the cupboard?
Did De Vinci know he was monumental, or did he feel he was the manic/depressive
His friends probably thought him to be?
Could cummings have written about the bitter hands of winter as lovingly as he did of spring?
Or is it all, perhaps, just patience, good weather, and historical luck?
Not that I’ll ever be more than a woman wishing for well-loved, a mother long-loving,
And a mortal enduring. But some days, most days, that is enough.
For those few that it is not, I write; if not always well, at least honestly.
