His-story
When I am gone, whatever of this amalgamation -
This scattered scrapbook of living is left
After what is popularly called the end of one's life
All that remains are stories
Some told over drinks and smokes
And some told with sentimental tears
Each story shaped and folded by the teller
So as to best fit into their pocket of memories
I, too, do this daily as I make sense of the nonsensical
The seemingly random collection of days that have become me
I never meant to make this particular me
My best laid plans - as they all are -
Have been shattered to dust by the shocks and shakes of living
Through all of this, you and me, we have plodded, stumbled and
Prayed ourselves back to the barn at night
Stepping so many times like the work horses we are
We have worn a rut around the millstone
But sometimes, a storm or tremor
Comes so large that we are shaken
And forced to break the bonds that hold us to task
And in those moments, we snort and rare up
Flailing our limbs in protest
And in that moment
We are neither grateful or gracious
But we soon regain our wits and
We attempt return to our rutted ways
But unbeknownst and unawares
We have moved just the slightest
And we begin to walk anew
And those millions and millions of small, unseen-to-us moves
Over time pile up - like shavings beneath the lathe
And almost imperceptibly, we become
Something new
And this process driven by unseen hands
Is the mystery every good writer knows - though few can really describe
It is the mother's kiss on the feverish forehead
It is the loving look at the sleeping face beside you
It is the explanation for every wondrous snowflake
Rainbow and sweet honeysuckle blossom
It is the unseen grace, the gentle touch, the misty-eyed gaze
Of love's shy face
dg
6/13/11
This scattered scrapbook of living is left
After what is popularly called the end of one's life
All that remains are stories
Some told over drinks and smokes
And some told with sentimental tears
Each story shaped and folded by the teller
So as to best fit into their pocket of memories
I, too, do this daily as I make sense of the nonsensical
The seemingly random collection of days that have become me
I never meant to make this particular me
My best laid plans - as they all are -
Have been shattered to dust by the shocks and shakes of living
Through all of this, you and me, we have plodded, stumbled and
Prayed ourselves back to the barn at night
Stepping so many times like the work horses we are
We have worn a rut around the millstone
But sometimes, a storm or tremor
Comes so large that we are shaken
And forced to break the bonds that hold us to task
And in those moments, we snort and rare up
Flailing our limbs in protest
And in that moment
We are neither grateful or gracious
But we soon regain our wits and
We attempt return to our rutted ways
But unbeknownst and unawares
We have moved just the slightest
And we begin to walk anew
And those millions and millions of small, unseen-to-us moves
Over time pile up - like shavings beneath the lathe
And almost imperceptibly, we become
Something new
And this process driven by unseen hands
Is the mystery every good writer knows - though few can really describe
It is the mother's kiss on the feverish forehead
It is the loving look at the sleeping face beside you
It is the explanation for every wondrous snowflake
Rainbow and sweet honeysuckle blossom
It is the unseen grace, the gentle touch, the misty-eyed gaze
Of love's shy face
dg
6/13/11
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