I can still run when I want to
If I want to
Although nearing age 66
I mostly plod
Moving slower
Incrementally, entropically
With a bit less enthusiasm for
sprinting
Into oblivion
Or even rising to new challenges
Or the same old ones
(The mere challenge of rising
becoming
More and more apparent)
That horizon seems to be moving
in my direction
At its steady pace…
Maybe I need to check my dipstick
See what level my vital fluids
are at
Perhaps I’m down a quart of
testosterone?
I’m still in the race
At least in my mind
I can access that young man
Who did life so subtly
Effortlessly
Painlessly.
I can still run, when I want
But there is a cost now
A different one, and maybe
higher.
And do I really want to go that
fast
Tempting the wheels to fly off?
Or is it better, wiser
Just to plod?
You can’t blame them
That they are such bearers of bad news
(At least by our selfish assessment)
Vectoring disease while trying
By the powers of nature to do
Exactly what we all try to do;
Live and survive
Propagate and pass along
Our essence.
Born beautiful in their seeming simplicity
They take what they need
And inadvertently pass along others,
Those unclean,
They take too
Our lifeblood becomes theirs and
We are compromised
For their moment of life.
We are stung so that they may grow...
We all take
But just some of us know
The apparent outcome.
We learn to make the crane
Step by step
We fold the blank paper
Which has no meaning save
For its potential
We fold, and shape and give it
Our energy
Our love
And fold and fold and fold again
And there it is at last
As it always had been
The crane which I learned to make
And its peace
Which I am learning to make as well.
The moon is full and shining brightly in the west,
Making friends with the indifferent mountain peaks
Illuminating the fields high with grass,
And nodding ferns
Their shadows dancing towards the nearby forest,
Still dark and quiet.
The Big Dipper,
Orion,
And Cassiopeia
Are hanging in the north and east,
Blinking stoically,
Watching over us.
A distant dog barks without much conviction.
Roosters are crowing their farewells to the night
And calling the dawn.
It is a new day.
Good morning.
There is a puzzle
Of which I am a part
Jigsaw like
And pieces as they are so created
Either fit just so
Congruent, compatible, matching
Or not at all
Edges rough, unyielding, un-abiding
And child-like I have tried
sometimes
To make my fit
To force the edges to obey my
will, my way
Even though I do also know the
parts and portions
Sometimes morph organically,
magically
Given time
And what once did not match or
suit
Now work with ease
Edges complimenting edges seamlessly
Growing so in ways unforced
In ways that seem to play out
perfectly
Naturally
Peacefully.
It is very quiet,
Not a ripple of sound
Save the rain in the pines and oaks.
It drains unheard but not silently
Into the nearby lake
As tongues of water lap
Gently onto the shore.
The world is on the move…
Is there such a thing as silence?
If the dead had ears
They might just hear
The scratching of the cilia
Of the passing worms.
Could it ever be so still
That the living could hear
The thunderous chorus
Of seven billion heartbeats?
Could it ever be so quiet?
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