Did he have a choice
to think of things to come
when birds sang
as he pounded nails
into two by fours
that the blueprint
promised to be
a house
that strangers
would someday
call their home
yet would they ever
think of him
who built dreams
from sweat and toil
and the love
of songbirds
as he paused
to listen.
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Truth (with a capital "T") is the elephant, and humanity the blind touching, sniffing, tasting, listening to this big "T" and of course we all rhapsodize a different tale (or tail?), yet in the end the big "T" is still the big "T" and all our various tales describe a tiny bit of that reality, the elephant.
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