That Which Longs to be Said

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