It’s that one photograph that should be savored,
should be fingered with the eyes,
cherished and framed, set on a wall,
a reminder of a tender life-moment.
It’s that one word, that one poem that should be food—
food for thought,
prickles for the mind, fare for the soul, preserved in a book,
contained in memory and heart.
But we have this greedy appetite to move on to the next, best, greatest thing.
We flit from piece to piece,
from heart song to heart cry
with quick whimpers and ah-ha’s and ooh’s and ah’s—
but then they are gone
with no foothold left,
no lingering breath of life.
And this feeble nourishment fails to satisfy
because fleeting fast food barely alights on our tired, thirsty souls.