The Essential Year
What remained was our essence
It was a year of drama without theater
A year of art without galleries
Dining without restaurants
Learning without schools
Faith without churches
Love without hugs
X without Y
It was a year of withouts
Press a flower in a book for long enough and the moisture leeches away.
Press a flower in a book and the color fades, too.
Even a once sturdy flower becomes fragile, the vein architecture pronounced, each contour in stark relief.
Press a flower in a book for hundreds of years and it remains a flower.
Drama without a theater remains drama
Art without a gallery remains art
Love without a hug remains love
It was a year of remaining
And some of our color faded
And some of our robustness became fragile
But our inner architecture became pronounced, each contour in stark relief
What remained was our essence.
It was an essential year.
