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.
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