Looking up as Michaelanglo must have done in the Sistine Chapel, wondering if he was good enough, even though the
proof that he was, stood right above him.
Laughter fills nighttime air and stars are scattered everywhere.
Their patterns always standing out on easels of black –
sky-high – showing us all levels of what we can become,
if we but try.
Noticing details of nature, sensing death’s presence hiding yet, behind fragrant flowers and bushes.Not yet ready to pounce and take me with him.Seeing my life filled with love for my sons and grandchildren.
Wanting to be heard and thought of, being placed in a myriad of poems, displayed in moments of fame as they are read in leisurely pursuits of learning.
Quality of life is exasperating and folding me in half, leaving me alone, drifting on a raft in a major storm upon the ocean.
Tears tenderly, softly, falling down tracks, etched over time from all the grief being expressed through many years of existence.Any thoughts left have nothing to being merciful, yet compassion fulfills many an hour in contemplation.
