One of those days where the weight of it all
seems insurmountable
in the face of life, of men
and mice, of gods wronged
by mortal songs, o' those few,
Precious few, fated to cast dice
and any other animal who might.

I know to be content
all I must do is stand here
in the drizzle during the witching
hour, all I must do is
feel the morning dew after it's coalesced,
Its moisture caressingly laid on each fine blade
of grass, all I must do
is breathe the afternoon mist, take in this fresh air,
All I must do is stride
thru nightly fog, taking it in; and above all, be present
while I can, all I must
do is appreciate that I
am