All, hold sacred the morning,
Miraculous as the birth of a child,
Its strands of potential as numerous and intricate
As an infant’s fingers and toes.

Let us wish each of our days
To grow strong and healthy,
Old and wise,
Though not all can.

Some will die young
Impaled on pikes
Of rage and envy…
Of anger over
Imagined injury.

Others will grow emaciated
On a diet of idleness,
Lingering, but longing
For the sustenance
We should have provided.

But, let us pray that most of our days
Walk nimbly off after breakfast
To study well their lessons;
That they should swell with accomplishment
In their afternoons
And walk pensively at dusk
With the aid of a gnarled stick,
Returning home to read by the fire
And drift off to sleep
With the all the wisdom
Their hours could ever
Have hoped to impart.

Our days–
A finite progression of births and deaths,
Each to be welcomed at arrival
And lamented as it passes on,
Sadly missed but fondly recorded,
And warmly rejoined
In a realm where birth and death
Are meaningless distinctions.

Photo credit: Gareth Davies, Pexels