May
Clay
His body displaced the air as he walked along a sunlit path and questioned the worth of his existence. What if anything would he leave behind? He beheaded a flower to examine its ephemeral beauty and purpose, sniffing then twirling it by the stem, before tossing it back to earth. As all things return again and must end. Walking stick clicking, he mused, Amen. A life undone to become at best, what? A pleasurable scent or melody to linger, to enlighten the mind lost in reverie, to excite the puzzled facets of one’s day? He imagined his grown children pausing to smile, their senses stirred by a mental drifting remnant arabesque to exclaim: Yes … that was who he was … or who he wanted to be, loving to delight, because he saw both sides, wanting all to agree. Yet raging at complacency and himself, his worst critic, striving for heaven in this often living hell. So why go gently? Succumb and fade, be tossed away or – worse than be forgotten – be remembered as some scuff of a troubled foot scraping unmolded clay.
Excerpt from Light-Years in the Dark: StoryPoems (see more)
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