For a Time

I've done a lot of inner searching by the way of various personality tests in the past week because my fundamentals of speech class finds it vital to understand oneself before one can understand the way in which one communicates with others in any social environment. I really love it. But what I'm realizing (well, I realized this a long time ago) is how much I overanalyze everything. And the way in which analytical study, though profound at times, can make us miss the small, simple, beautiful details in nature, in people, in improbable friendships. So I wrote a poem about it of course:

Today, I think
that art loses
its magic when it is analyzed
that tree, its limbs bowing
down to the lime of
grass lit by sunlight
is beauty
stop inquiring
into its nature, its past
its meaning
That breathy whistle
is not so much a
melody, a half-hearted
musical attempt
it is that hum of life,
that buzz of birds and
frogs and crickets and
train whistles and the
sound of spinning
rubber on asphalt
But I am a hypocrite
who analyzes everything
and now I hum because
the wind egged me on
and I realize that
with practice
I may perceive and feel
and maybe
cease to think
for a time.