Arbitrary is the universe,
so say those who adhere
to a nondescript sphere
void of virtue and verve.
Spinning through seasons
lacking reason
with a blasé purpose to serve.

And yet arbitrary are the flowers
in said universe,
purchased purely on whim.
How a posy of impulse
can imply a spontaneous telos—
a bouquet of caprice
that speaks wordless of love
to budding hearts,
for her and for him.

How arbitrary the objects are
placed here before me—
an empty vase, crystal-cut
with gossamer carvings
resembling the flora it reveres sometimes
and other times not.

An ornamental brass hand
that cradles a baby,
resting atop the well-kept windowsill.
Why front and centre, not slight
on the left-side or four inches to the right?
An arbitrary decision
though an intuitive one still.

And a single pin;
lone,
placed pointless yet pointed
t’ward serendipity found
in those far lands anointed.

But arbitrary too is that pin
penetrating aimless a map.
The compass needle
pulling unapologetic
at the sleeve of the heart,
grasping desperate
at its pining, outreaching hand—
to maybe the Florentine
mountains of sun-soaked Chianti;
the pristine ivory sand
of the Seychelles or Maldives;
or the Danube valleys west of Vienna,
the most striking and vivacious
in all the land.

Actions, decisions, everything;
all potential for the arbitrary.
For this is no bad thing—
no, on quite the contrary.
How both chaos and harmony
coalesce and collide
in the completely seamless ordinary.

© Joseph Chin
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