For every moment I have faltered,
or chosen to run away, it comes to this,
that moment I must humble myself.
No reason or rationale or flimsy excuse
separates me from that awful reality, the knowing
our days are numbered and
intentions are simply not enough.
So I will revel in each of these numbered days,
these loves, and this constructed reality.
I have lived long and well. When that last night comes,
I will go gently.
Robert Lee Brewer's prompt today for National Poetry Month (PAD poem a day) was to write an apology poem . . . or to write an unapologetic poem. This morning, facing down two April challenges, my thoughts turned to limits that we all face, and one at least I don't think of often, but this last month has been full of death.
Beautiful poem, Beth. I'm not sure how I will go. My parents certainly are not going quietly. One is 98 and the other 93 and they claw and fight for every breath. I think they belong to the "Every day above dirt is a good day" group. ;-)
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