A miracle in the menial,
neither mortal nor venial,
water waiting to be fetched,
arrows waiting to be fletched:
these two hands can **** or create,
known to love or burning hate.
This body was not made to perish,
but to feel and care and cherish.
In it there’s a timeless wisdom!
Though capable of loth and sickdom,
we must resist passivity’s charms,
and many needless New Age qualms––
in this epoch of cheap distraction,
O, should folk think just a fraction:
“life in bloom beyond a screen,
one of fairest things I’ve seen.”
Perhaps the birds will carry on
singing after I am gone,
or perhaps the world unfolds
only in my lonely mind.
I’m not yet old enough to find
a good answer to this burning question,
for though my fledgling fingers
grasp facile responses,
the same doubt always plays over
in my aching head:
what if I’m looking at things all wrong?
Half awake and ruminating in bed,
cool winter wind carries through the window
that familiar morning melody that reminds me:
listen to life’s song!
— The End —