I like poetry that speaks to the ordinary as well as the sublime. T.S. Eliot’s ‘Burnt Norton’ starts off with
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
Heady stuff indeed (and surprising — I thought Eliot would say all time is redeemable). But later Eliot writes
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
And I remember yesterday, when the laughter of my children and their friends pealed from under fallen leaves.