Circles break and squares loosen up.
Stars fade and stripes get spotty.
Yin is black; yang is white,
yet much in between is grey.

Dear Abby, Savage Love, I’m not.
I have neither perspicacity nor panache
pouring forth in an effortless way.

Any hint of wisdom that’s stuck
comes from the fine art of
regretting.

+++++++++++++++++++
I’ve been reading poetry by a very interesting Jesuit priest whom I knew for much of my adult life. I perceived him as an intimidatingly professorial scholar with a microscopic sense of humor. He was always around. I took him for granted. He passed away before I had any interest in reading his writings. Now, I find myself repeatedly reaching for his books, re-reading pages and verses, smiling at his wit, and being moved to tears by his honesty. I regret missing the boat on discussing his words, his thoughts, his life. I regret not being able to tell him how much I love his work. The piece I wrote above is what I imagine his response would’ve been if I’d asked him to define wisdom.
+++++++++++++++++++
In 55 words, this is for Melissa’s Six Word Friday topic: wisdom.