Posting a poem about the world being a perfect place might feel a bit ironic right now. But as previous poems have tried to indicate, there’s still a lot to marvel at out there. So here’s my last shot at trying to prove that to you. Like Roger McGough says: as long as you can appreciate the warm crackling of a freshly baked baguette, you’ll be just fine here.
The world is the perfect place to be born into.
Unless of course, you don’t like people
or trees, or stars, or baguettes.
Its secret is movement.
As soon as you have stepped back
to admire the scenery
or opened your mouth
to sing its praises
it has changed places with itself.
but those infinitesimals add up.
(About the baguettes,
that was just me being silly.)