These days, I've taken the time to finally realize that there's air in my lungs and a beat in my heart, and that is half of my life right there. Because with that, I can accomplish so much-living through my Advanced Placement Chemistry Exam (I'm now making plans to ceremoniously burn my review book), dealing with people just as stubborn as I am, even perform my All-State oboe solo tomorrow in front of Mr. Judge. Yes, D-Day has come, my friends.
But oddly, I'm not nearly as nervous as I thought I would be; this poem may be a contributing factor to that phenomenon:
The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all day
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.
You see, I had a recital last Wednesday night for said oboe solo. Said recital included playing Concerto for Oboe by R. Vaughan Williams in front of people very close to my life. Twenty five people very close to my life. One could naturally guess I was about to flip a shit, but strangely, all thought of scurrying out of the auditorium dissipated once I began reading from a book in my hand, and the words of Miss Dickinson filled the nooks and crannies of space.
Nature is never perfect, although it does its job perfectly. The phenomenon will consistently complain, debate on whether it should complete its organically assigned task, and show a wide range of emotions throughout its travelling. Nevertheless, nature completes the task perfectly. It needed to shift through imperfections to reach it, but here is perfection. And the next flake travels down.
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