Life is Wonderful


always try to write the story
and every time i do
the ending is changing
can’t ever seem to find the words
that say how i really feel
i’m never on the right page
am I in the first chapter
or can this be the last
complex etymology
the page numbers seem to float
gently to the ground
like leaves on a fall afternoon
where can I find the title
or the prologue to the epilogue
I see the the faces of all those people
that we’ve known and have
showed love toward us
like the finest engravings they are
printed across the timeline of my mind
are we headed north, or has it all
gone south what I mean is that
its so hard to tell the story of life
without all the pieces on the table
those outer pieces get the
whole thing started but
where they are sometimes I don’t know
cast aside or brushed onto the floor
to be swept away, or under some
imitation Persian carpet that we bought
so long, long, ago at a fleece market
what will be the binding, thread, glue?
leather bound, gold-leaf, embossed?
today always seems as if the story
is about to end, then again
today seems like writing the first lines
a long road traveled one day
the beginning of a journey the next
is there anyone listening
are there none who care to or dare to
roll down the hill like the children
breath deep the air that has the freedom
to go here, go there,
the times changed long ago and far away
for our generation
now today is today
tomorrow becomes the braves index
leading us up from the grave
to enjoy what we have been given
to stop, look, listen
as long as we can for as long as we do
then to realize that pages, chapters, volumes
are only that, words…all talk
but rising from my simple simon chair
with zuzu’s petals in my pocket
still makes the heart of this old traveler
cry tears of joy once more
wonder, o wonder, what a life this is and was and will be

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