When people talk about how
you have lived your life,
will there be much to say?
Will days be busy with remembering,
or will it all be condensed
into brief snapshots of time?
Who can say what mark we leave
upon the world in which we live,
and whether, beneath the sheets
of death, we can be found wanting.
Was there some faint song which
was not sung, or paths which
were not walked,when choice
brought sitting, instead, by
the side of sullen, silent streams?
Did crows cry coarsely at the edge,
of moments barely lived, and
years which struggled to be born,
in ways which would create,
make concrete and indelible,
the truth of who you were?
Perhaps it is in the questions
that we ask while living, that
we can find the symbols of
our Soul, and in the tracing of
those convoluted patterns,
bring poetry and music into being;
like magpies with their liquid
crystal carolling, and crabs which
trace in fine embroidered marks,
on restless, drifting sand.
When the petals drop from
flowered hours, will they fall,
in gentle disarray as decaying
beauty, redolent and reminscent
of a life well lived?