Life: Records
Look at your broken cup,
unable to hold even
simple dreams,
needless to say anything
about tea.
Still, I long
for muddy water and hot sun
above, my feet swimming
in earth; my mind is
quiet.
Still, I long, yes,
for confluence
of river and cedar and
mountain
meadow where, tired
dirty hands can rest.
We are all pining
for that hope sung by starlight
beyond the mind’s
endless distractions.
Though grit,
though pain,
though ten thousand needless pains:
a smile
upon our face
for a life well-lived.
Where comfort is no consequence
save the comfort you feel
as a guest,
in my home.
Still, I long
to play this game
called:
Life.
Records.
Records of sound
and records of light.
Records of words
and records of actions.
Records of trees, tall and twisting,
and records of dirt, nourishing life beneath bare feet.
Records of strangers’ smiles, though their eyes are sad,
and records of children crying, as mother gently coos.
Records of dawn on the mountains,
and records of dusk upon the forest floor.
Records of every time I’ve fallen,
and every time I flew.
Record of separation,
and a record of entanglement.
Record of magic,
and wonder,
and awe,
and a record of cold, hard facts.
Record of my mother, no longer with us,
and record of my father, whose love still abounds.
A record, yes,
of life,
and a record of death.
These records play,
like tracks repeating,
marking the passing
seasons of your life.
And so I’ll tell you:
When you leave this world
you will take your heart with you,
but leave its record behind.
Look at your cup.
Once, it was broken.
Now it holds tea, and
dreams:
the heart’s record
of a game called:
Life.
