Wednesday, April 5, 2017
On Christmas day, in ’95,
A seagull, lifeless in the snow,
Was laid before my fireplace,
In a box to thaw and grow.
I dreamed in error that morning,
Alive, flying about the room…
Was the rehabilitated seagull,
I had saved from winter’s doom.
Every day we harbor hope,
Life pencils draw an erasable line…
Like dances at the rest home’
Celebrating one last time.
Somedays we exhaust ourselves
Wondering just how we will die,
The truth is all that energy,
Needs to give tomorrow, one more try.
Often now, I compare myself,
To the dying seagull once again.
I’ve discovered in the game of life,
There is no mulligan.