A ripple spreading from a pond’s translucent core,
born from a single drop of rain,
lapping timidly against the near and far shores,
brushing against the frogs and fish and turtles burrowed deep,
bringing forth waves of fear,
My life is the churned-up mud beneath the highway wreckage,
stained with jagged shards of pristine, sparkling glass
and splashes of melting crimson rubies.
It’s a quavering soprano, winding, alone, on the currents of the wind,
then joined, with a cacophony of disjointed altos and baritones and tenors,
until melting together in a creamy blend of melody.
A lonely creeping sprout, pressing, yearning for the sun,
clawing with viridian fingers through the loam,
sucking in the CO2 with desperate lungs,
hoping, wishing, for a warming touch.
My life’s a wayward leaf, tossing in the throes of thunder,
a fairy caught in a gossamer spider web, tangled, struggling,
a trembling hare, cornered and bloodied by a snapping wolf.
A helpless fox, snagged and borne away be a sapphire serpent,
tossing wildly against the rocks, then floating calm and serene
until the white rapids send it careening once again,
never truly at peace.
My life’s a heavy tome, the first quarter scripted in legible English, chronicling my story,
the rest filled with archaic runes, like Latin,
What is the end of my story?
Only the Spirit knows.
My life’s a minuscule star, a meager dot among the heavens, neither brilliant
nor obscure, besides the countless others,
yet under a lens, I shine bright to those around me, close like sisters,
My life is not momentous, not easy, not perfect;
It’s not always enjoyable or grand or great in scheme.
My life can grow quite hectic or be dull as a bone.
But the greatest thing about my life is that it chronicles the story of