In the course of things, I am lucky,
cradled in the arms of time,
where light spills golden over quiet moments,
and laughter lingers like a melody.
My life, a poem written in footsteps,
etched in the hush of morning dew,
where every breath is a whispered miracle,
a tender gift, unwrapped anew.
Yet here I stand, lungs full of borrowed air,
wrapped in the fragile mercy of existence,
where every breath is both given and spent,
never promised, never owed.
The world is sweeter for my knowing;
each fading petal, each rising star,
not mine to keep, yet mine to cherish,
fleeting, yet eternal.
And so, I let it wash through me;
the ache of beauty, the weight of wonder,
the laughter that shakes loose the sorrow,
the grief that teaches love its depth.
For what is life, if not fleeting?
What is joy, if not edged with loss?
And yet, I am here.
Breathing.
Alive.
A miracle unto myself.
