We are who we are—
our stories wide open books,
their leaf-thin pages turning,
relentlessly—flashing before our eyes,
often before we can grasp what to write,
as we march on and on and on
in widening circles
spreading out like multi-colored ripples across a pond—
flavors unique to the individual—
at times, intersecting,
the colors mixing, mingling, befuddling the mind
as we look each other in the eye
and carry on,
grateful for the company.
We’re on our way—
works in progress, constantly in motion,
molded and shaped like clay,
fashioned into something completely new
by the curious hands of providence
as seconds turn to minutes,
minutes turn to hours, hours turn to days.
Time never ceases,
and we’re swept along in life’s currents—
still trying to figure out the right words,
we do what we can.
We’re on our way.
 Butterzworth · Fri Apr 15, 2011 @ 09:40am · 0 Comments |
