THESE LITTLE VICTORIES by J.T.A. Reddy

To simply be, one must need to see beyond the pond of one’s own arrange

and take the mean waves downstream, should the ocean welcome strangers;

if those blue-silver spectres see you, a thousand thousands from my ear,

tell them what a wonderful year to have had, that the sky remained blue and sun green

or yellow, because wistful glances make her unhappy so! What shock-full

dreams dance like swans in the late night of never-ending day, as some would

say haunt - I say, I rise, what blackness would there be otherwise?

Pollen-balls may make the luncheon-maker sneeze,

and poor footfalls may make the summer-dancer wheeze,

but tell them not of yellow sundresses and ivory-key serendipity,

or wide-eyed addresses when the amber air is an endless luxury,

but tell them of a stranger, who smells like winter rain and sounds like

the gap between words unspoken, for one day I shall know them, yes, I shall

through our mutual friend named sunlight, a thankless valet.

What is faith but what just is, and the monumental ‘if’ I cannot hail?

No, this will be her greatest feat; that when, and only when,

I am done in my love of learning,

and my learning to love — oh, these little victories —

we should meet.