My mood is not bleak. I am not depressed, nor am I forlorn.
Todays sadness is not greater than on any other day.
The aches and pains that make me aware of my body
are no more troublesome than they
were yesterday or will be tomorrow.
I have no thoughts of dread or discomfort,
nor do I feel that I must hide
myself away from anything that might await
or anything that has already been.
I have made peace with the ghosts
of my past and welcome whatever the
bring with the open mind of an eager student.
Outside of my windows, the sky remains blue
and the clouds hover high.
In spite of the constant forecasts of doom,
the freeze has been held at bay.
Even though the trees have lost the
warmth of their lush and vibrant coats,
there is still the occasional songbird
sitting upon the bare limbs.
My children are well, by most standards,
and the grandchildren continue to
and be my source of delight and pleasure.
We share our meals and go away
from the table not wanting for more,
but perhaps taking for granted
our good fortune of always having enough.
How is it then, with the busy preparation of
the impending holidays, and
the familiar tunes
of Christmas dancing in my head and occasionally
bursting forth from my lips without warning,
single letters appear on my notepad forming
such words of despair and desperation?
As if written with the hands of a marionette,
they forge ahead almost faster
than I can make
sense of what is taking place before my eyes.
Not once pausing to search for a better word
or a phrase more descriptive
the messages that are to be passed along.
I am convinced that though it is my time now,
I am not alone in my endeavor.
I am but a mere tool for the lost,
for the ones that had no voice, no will
or the opportunity to speak for themselves.
The ones that went away to soon.
Someone has lived the poems that
I write and it is their stories that I tell.
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