This Living Thing

This living thing…
that happens each day
and then stops
at some random moment
or not so random…
should one choose to believe in fate,
inviting all danger at any cost,
though most of us choose
to play it safe.
Others plunge headfirst
into the ever after, not knowing
or not believing…
or believing in who knows what…
Maybe they have left a note
explaining themselves.
We hope that if they did…
that it helped somehow.
There are many ways
to choose to leave this world.
Some like the Golden Gate Bridge.
Some prefer less public means.
Some I have known
or wished I had known better,
known what they were thinking when,
known what to say to keep them here
a little while longer, until they found
what they needed in this lifetime,
this living thing, that gives me shivers
at the sight of the white tailed hawk
or the little red-billed Blue Kingfisher.
Maybe there is only this
here and now…
or maybe there is everything
that came before, and maybe
it lives inside our soul
like some whirling dervish
endlessly intoxicated
by the ripples that fan out
across time, obscuring
the clean slate of promises
we inherit from other lifetimes
of learning and loving
and leaving it all behind
like a dusty bookcase
full and hidden away
in an attic somewhere
in a house forgotten
in a distant land, abandoned
and sure to remain there
until decay reclaims the pages,
rewriting history with a quill pen
from a scissortail flycatcher feather.
We cherish our lives.
We are the lucky ones.
We live, love, dance and sing.
We work. We play. We worship.
We are the lucky ones.
We give thanks beyond words.
We do not know how to sing it
so that the whole world knows
we are grateful.
We are humbled, amazed
and bewildered
by how easily we can forget
how wonderful life is
in this one world
we have been gifted with.


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