To some
it may seem strange,
having heard poets
and troubadours
wax nostalgic
about seeing starlight
reflected
in still
lake waters,
to have never seen
those lights,
those starry nights.
To have never known
what they spoke of,
to have never experienced
the beauty
of doubled diamonds,
some suspended above,
twins shimmering below,
clear and focused,
shining and waving.
Then,
one clear,
crisp
Wisconsin spring evening,
post eye surgery,
walking on a dock
which extended out
past trees
and lights,
and anything,
just he,
after a half a century,
alone,
suspended between
hundreds of glowing orbs,
times two,
at last seeing,
understanding,
recognizing
what others had sung about
and enthused over
and painted
and immortalized.
At last,
he saw.
Some might think it
strange,
and sad,
almost tragic.
“What he missed!”
they may exclaim.
But to him,
at last viewing,
finally comprehending
and feeling
and floating,
expanding his soul
and blending his
diamond tears
with the lake,
and with witnesses
before him,
and his gasp,
breath of adoration
and joy,
with creators like him,
the wait seemed
a small moment,
but so large
in its connective
worth.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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