The
bee is not burdened with indecision.
It
does what it does, pollinating among the
Flowers
with no doubt or hesitation, its
Honey,
a gift to the world. The fox depends
Upon
its stealth and cunning. Most of its
Business
is done under the cover of darkness,
Receiving
neither criticism nor praise for its
Failures
or successes. Christopher, at day’s
End
you empty your pockets to lie down with
More
questions than answers. Dreams help
Some,
but there is a great deal missing in the
Interpretation.
You have come this far not by
Favor
or merit, neither based upon your wit
Nor
talent, but by a random avoidance of
The
number assigned you at birth. The lottery
Of
life is unfairly played with a short breath
And
a scant heartbeat each second of every day.
Face
the reality of it all, your hill climbing days
Are
over. The limping and hunched shoulders,
The
twisted scowl of pain indelibly etched into
Your
face tell you that the past has a hefty and
Cumbersome
weight. And here you are, neither
Fox
nor bee, fortunate nonetheless, able to say
In
abiding words that which longs to be said.
Chris
Hanch 10-26-16