Under the ballerina's ease floats an unseen sinewy strength from grafting away at drills on callused toes. Even so I seek the strength to be ever more conscious whilst maintaining poise. Real life is surely to see all the burrs and barbs installed in a wider vista.
Were truth not in the integrity of a leaf, but only in loss, remorse, and anger, I would have the sense not to pursue it. As it is, I am glad to feel and see so vividly.
To note the clockwork moves of a goldfinch, or the way the ivy dotes on the oak; to rejoice when the bus arrives, or the socks match the hat, or the busker is in tune; to be enraptured by friendship's kindness, or the scent of soil; to hear an opus in the moving wheels of a train.
That is life that knows it is alive: life worthy of my sensitivity.