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