And Gone

There is so much to life, so dear and frail, 

We cannot wait nor spare for what inures 

Us to the open, kindest part of self. 

To always find the poem in how we live—

In what we daily breathe—we should, but if

Our lives will not, at present, offer light

Do listen for the yearning in the time 

We have.  To feel the earth is moving, or 

The traffic’s flow, or mood of those around 

Us ebb like night and day, our anger, joy,

To catch the drift of this, this is the pulse 

Itself, though even as a burden, one

That might oppress with blood.  To lay your self 

Still wide, to how we are—so faulty, full 

Of joy, the finest dust and spirit, bound

To here, eternally, and nothing that

Shall ever be the same again, and gone.