The Lost Realist

A stone falls in a pond,
Ripples,
Some large, some tiny,
So many.

A hammer hits a piano string,
So many tones,
Some high, some low,
Trapped in time’s flow.

The weave of a cloth,
So intricate,
Threads here, there,
Meandering to a plan sublime.

Insects buzz around a light,
So beautiful,
Ripples on a shimmering mess,
Trapped in a plan divine.

The pattern matters,
The substrate does not.

The mind is like this,
Complex, beautiful, ephemeral,
Rippling thoughts, shimmering dreams,
Does it matter, in gray matter or what?