Monday, September 21, 2015

New Seasons

The rain hasn’t melted me,
the sun hasn’t scorched me,
the snow hasn’t frozen me,
the leaves haven’t covered me.

Turn, Turn, Turn,
and I’m still here,
broken and battered,
heart heavy and soul worn.

Every Season has it’s sharply
pointed arrows.
That fly faster and harder
every year toward the heart.

We dip, we dodge, we
defilade,  we run, we rest,
we stop, we catch our

We survive our history,
and pretend to prepare for
the future, without knowing
what’s really going to happen.

We know it might rain,
or snow, be sunny or cloudy,
chilly and damp or dry and
gray. But never really for sure.

Monuments to the Id,
shrines to the Ego,
our bodies,  our minds,
weathering each storm.

Like some forgotten statue,
an icon of some unremembered
battle. Corroded, molding, pointing
upwards, defiant in time’s presence.

Still there. Still here.

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