Mastery

It is beautiful brevity
of words,
such as nimble-footed
poetry
that dances with minimal movements
for maximum expression,
diction and syntax coordinating like
soldiers in a military campaign,
selflessly serving
for the sake of all;
it is
a concerted harmony of indulgence and
economy,
such as thin layers of color
lazing together so that,
from the whole,
a watercolor landscape
thrusts through the haze
into view, coalescing
at that final moment
where before
the color appeared almost
shallow,
unfocused,
yet now refined in the lens
of cohesion,
almost as if by
chance,
happenstance,
or even destiny;
it is
a fencer
using a single thrust
to down his wildly flailing opponent,
or a gymnast
sticking a landing
as solidly as a
stake driven straight into the ground,
the whole world vibrating beneath her
feet,
yet she is standing as straight and still
as a monolith of granite, whereas a moment before
she was head-chasing-heels
in the mad-dash tumble of her floor routine.
It is
a few dangling notes
from a guitar
and a few tiptoeing keys
from a piano
dripping together,
offset and complimentary
in acoustic bliss.
Anyone might impress
with overbearing dabs of paint or
boisterous symphonies,
but true mastery,
as the Japanese know,
is a perfect Cherry Blossom
effortlessly opening
in humble confidence
as the eye
and the heart
open to meet it.

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