Eighty years he lived,
a man of principle. Of responsibility.
Waiting for the day,
when he’d finally be free.
After all lines were crossed—
the job, the mortgage, the house,
the kids to adulthood
with the spirit he espoused.
But there was always another thing.
Another step in the way.
Another phase that kept him
from what he wanted to say.
And before he knew it,
a lifetime had passed,
as did the energy it took
to share what he amassed.
Realizing, he went for a walk,
far down the street,
where a hundred thousand smiles
laid about his feet.
Studying the ground,
his mind crept all the way back,
down every avenue
over each bump and crack,
’til he came to a bench
deep in the square,
where a young family played
without any care.
And he sat.
And he smiled.
And he thought to himself,
how terribly wild.
How sweeping it is,
this life, this course,
moving us along
with omnipotent force.
And with it, such stories,
a run in the rain,
through all of the magic,
through all of the pain.
How beautiful, he marveled.
How hard and how soft.
What imagination it takes
to keep it all aloft.
As the young family continued
to play in the grass,
he started to see how
it all came to pass.
He realized that there was no pen,
no book,
that could ever capture what
he undertook.
That the greatest art was in the living,
the opening of a soul,
the meeting of another
for which you grow old.
And that he had been writing
all these many long years,
and the stories he wrote
are what perseveres.
— ❧ —
Poetry Corner
When I’m not writing about mountains, or nature, or the writing process, I tend to dip into poetry. It’s a good way for me to get the writing juices flowing for the project I’m working (which at present, is a YA-novel). If you like poetry, you can find more at In Verse.
A bench full of writers in Geneva, Switzerland