The Argument Resumed; Or, up through Tribeca

It may not be forever, but
The zing of beauty in the middle
Of the day—this little kid, for instance,
Heading home in his stroller,
Radiantly silly in a knitted snowsuit,
Or those windows of snazzy bowls
A few blocks back, all of solid wood
But gleaming as from a kiln
(Somebody should pay good money for that.
Ah, to be rich!)… The zing, I say,
An dich as we take our constitutional
Does add a luster when a luster is needed,
And if that luster fades as we proceed
Elsewhere, there’s no call to be
Bereft. We are left with our store
Of memories: the scent, maybe, of a herbal rinse
Familiar from childhood. Or the sky may echo
The blue of a favorite tie. But “forever”?
Doesn’t that tend to detract from the glory
Of the thing? Glory must burst
On us like fireworks. If the gleam
Or the sweetness isn’t fleeting,
How shall it bear repeating?
How should we dare to eat another
Sundae of sunsets? See where a peach
Glows among other peaches in the fruitbowl.
Such and no other is the soul.