I think a lot about “Musée des Beaux Arts” by W.H. Auden–
About how the world can be shattering for one person,
But blossoming for the next;
About how one soul can be grieving
And another celebrating;
About how a moment of peace in one place
Can happen beside a moment of strife in another.
I think a lot about “Musée des Beaux Arts,”
And how Icarus fell and how so little of the world cared–
And how so little of the world even knew
That a son had flown, then burned, then fell
While his father could only fly onward, aghast and mourning.
And yet everyone else did their laundry,
Or shared a joke, or just glanced up at the same sun
That was Icarus’ undoing.
I think a lot about “Musée des Beaux Arts”
And how vast the world is, and how little I know.
And I wonder if random moments of sadness
Or an unexplained burst of energy
Is just a hint of the rest of the world’s feelings
Manifesting, just for a moment, within me?
If the universe is trying to share something
That we can’t really, actually, share?
I think a lot about “Musée des Beaux Arts”
Copyright Sarah Davidson 2021
