There sits a sad twig way up in a tree...

There sits a sad twig way up in a tree;

he’s sitting there waving, yearning to be free.

He’s attached to a branch that’s attached to a trunk,

which is attached to some roots that are deeply sunk

sunk deep into the ground, in order to live.  

And so the twig thinks, “What I wouldn’t give...

to be up in the air flying high in the sky,

not a care in the world, just wish I could fly.

This really does suck, I’m ever so near,

some day will it happen?  Maybe some year?”

There was a leaf attached to the twig;

as far as leaves go he was kinda big,

but it was late in the year, the season was fall;

his days were numbered, just a few left at all.

All day and all night he would hear the twig whine

then one day he stopped and said, “Do you mind?

Any day now, I’ll lose my grip,

which will begin my final trip.

Sure I’ll be flying, but not on my own,

I’ll be carried the way the wind’s blown.

And nothing can stop me from going down

to my final resting place somewhere on the ground.

And all while that happens, you’ll be alive,  

not totally free but for years you’ll survive,

through countless summers with sun and with rain,

getting taller and taller again and again.

Leaves like me will come and go;

but higher and higher you’re going to grow.

So can you please stop, stop whining out loud?

At least for a moment, so I can be proud

of all that we’ve done and all that we’ve seen

from when I was a bud until I turned green;

when we soaked in the sun and soaked in the rain

and hung on to each other when the storms were insane!

We’ve done much together, you and I,

but now it’s time where I say good-bye,

I’ve served my purpose; I’ve completed my task,

I’ve done what I could, no more left to ask.

I’ve turned yellow and orange and red,

now it’s time to fall into my bed.

Thank you, dear twig, though I know you’re not free,

but you see without you, there would be no me.

And I’m thankful for you, just as you are,

and as I fall, know I’ll never be far.

And with that the leaf let go, with hope in his mind,

that the twig would discover that in due time,

when the snows were gone and springtime was here,

that the twig will be needed once again next year.

There will be a new leaf, starting out as a bud,

and way down below, deep into the mud,

his old friend, the old leaf, has found a new cause,

for new life is found, there is never a loss.

We all have a purpose and we all have a place

called the circle of life, so full of grace.

A true circle with no beginning, no end,

and so the twig learned something from his friend.

“I guess nothing in life is totally free,

for I’m dependent on others and they’re dependent on me,

for I couldn’t be a twig if there wasn’t a tree,

and thanks to my friend I finally see...

...that life without life just cannot exist,

and life without life would end in a mist,

each life has a purpose, and each life has a place,

called the circle of life, full of grace.”

Hello?

Somebody?

Anybody?

Hello?

I am breathing.

Slowly.

Deeply.

Looking for, searching for, screaming for

an escape.

I know you are out there with outstretched arms,

Smiling, waving, beaming,

like a sun peeking through and pushing away the dark cloudy blanket

that oppresses my spirit.

Yes, it’s true, in every life some rain must fall.

And natural rain can be quite beautiful,

but man-made rain?

The water drips into my eyes, hiding tears that weren’t even there.

But trudge on I must –

I must keep forging ahead,

through the mud and debris of life,

on my way towards my sunset.

A Statue

There stands a statue,

overlooking a city square

standing tall and upright and rigid,

showing a stoic face,

representing the accomplishments of a distant past,

memorialized as a snapshot in time

preserved in chiseled rock.

Many walk by, unaware of its existence

and ignorant of its meaning.

Some seek it intentionally,

others find it unintentionally,

but regardless, it stands there

tall and upright and rigid,

with it’s brave, stoic face,

a snapshot in time,

in it’s hope to survive time

in order to bring the message of the past

to the generations of the future.

It stands in blazing heat and chilling cold,

Through rain, snow, sleet, and hail (as they say)

withstanding winds and leaves and branches and birds...

And yet, no one or no thing can

withstand or outlive time,

for as time rolls on, it takes away

a nick here, a broken piece there,

turning bright into dull
and shiny into bleak.

The statue, up on its pedestal,

in all of it’s perceived permanence,

is still dependent on some one or some thing

to preserve itself, its legacy, its message...

...for without motion and interaction,

a statue is just...

...a statue...

...a fading, crumbling,

but still ironically stoic reminder

of a distant message

memorialized but not immortalized.

For without memory, there is no immortal.

And without life, there is no memory.

And without interaction, there is no life.

And without motion, there is no interaction...

...like...

...a statue...

...overlooking a city square

standing tall and upright and rigid,

showing a stoic face,

representing the accomplishments of a distant past,

memorialized as a snapshot in time

preserved in chiseled rock...

...waiting as long as it can for

motion,

and interaction,

and life,

and memory,

and immortality.

A Fog

The beat of the music was slow and methodical. 
It was a haunting melody, but hauntingly relaxing. 
It was a slow, Latin beat.

The man stood looking at the still water of the lake. 
The waves and the breeze seemed to be in time with the music. 
The full moon shined brightly overhead.

Hauntingly relaxing – like he was almost at peace.  But why almost?

he had followed his soul, and his soul brought him to here. 

And now – a fog.

There were a million silent whispers, but the wind carried no sound...just the hypnotic gentle lapping of the waves onto the shore.

he has looked deep, deep within his soul, for a sign, a clue, a note. 

But there was nothing.

True lack of direction, with no definitive source of light.  The fog played tricks with his eyes and ears and mind.

“Go ahead, scream!  No one will hear you!”  the fog said.  “Scream, yell, kick, cry, laugh, sit, close your eyes, bury your head in your hands, look up, look down, turn around – you will accomplish nothing!”

So he sat down on the ground and looked up and said, ”take me.  go ahead.”

And yet even then, nothing.

“why, oh why?’ the man yelled. “i have done everything you’ve asked!”

And yet there was still nothing. 

Just a man and his music, sitting in a fog by a lake on a moonlit night.

And he sat. 
And waited. 
The sun rose and set and rose and set, all the time enshrouded in the fog. 
All he hears is the music and the very faint sound of his own single heart beat. 
Tha-thump.  Tha-thump.

he reached out to grab anything and just clutched thin air. 
he goes to stand and his legs don’t respond. 
he holds himself tightly and yet he is still cold. 

he wonders, what is my purpose? 

And that wondering thought wanders into the fog. 
a thousand days and a thousand nights pass,
and the fog is still there. 
he has tried walking and running, to no avail.

So, the man sits in the dark,
defeated,
unable to move,
and closes his eyes
and listens to the music.