by Preston Ellington
Born pressed ‘n squeezed, clasped
down as a fearful boy,
needing the strength a heavy heart can’t give
trades in his very joy.
To be alive, is to be able to die–
ephemeral by design and chance.
Fore- death is not for fear, when one sees life clearly–
the chrysalis.
Iron grips released, replaced by bloody,
surrendering, skyward palms,
The weight rises like the sun, dawn’s
warmth wiping tears, as they finally fall.
Time may heal a wound,
but compassion disarms the blade.
Explore what is yours alone,
then rejoice as you tear the hidden chains.
Here, now–yet above–floating
seamlessly, freely
giving lyrics, to the melodies of my humming heart,
singing…
Earn that which you own,
produce more than you consume
Cultivate contentment,
for peace is better practiced than pursued.
For what is language,
if not our feeble attempt,
to replicate the divine hymn
veiled behind Mother Nature’s lips.
Her poetry falls from the yawning trees
as the seasons follow course.
25 times I’ve watched this spectacle.
It marks the end of my life’s First Fourth.
