Archive 04/25/09 - (3)

   

Mystery

                                                                  

How we grow into each new year

Remains a mystery I've yet to even dream of unriddling.

All I know is that we do — we seem to, at least.

 

Whatever the reason, we succeed at accommodating to aging

(Assuming doom has taken no interest in us),

Without inordinate complaint or obsessive regret.

 

Mortality, as complex as its mechanisms get, lets us be,

Does it damnedest not to disturb our delusions and hubris,

Shiver us, with melancholy morbidities.

 

Rarely, in our too-brief existences, do we brood

Over how quickly or laggardly our next nativity will arrive,

If, indeed, its occurrence is meant to transcend the past.

 

Tonight, a mere week and a day after turning sixty-eight,

I give praise to being alive, growing old, older,

Weaving each day into humanity's illuminated pages,

 

And say grace, over the food I've been blessed with,

At this table for one — a guest in my own house of solitude —

Grateful for the mystery, its miracle and its majesty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                

04/25/09 - (3)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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