All crumpled up.
But still doing her job, her sign out.
A shopping cart - she holds the side
And with her other hand, she grasps the cane.
And the cars pass by.
“Where are you going miss?” I ask.
“Do you need some help?”
And for a moment, she forgets,
And I point to the sign.
It has flopped over
“Oh yes,” she says. “That’s right.”
I hand her a few dollars.
“Do you need to get somewhere?”
“No,” she says. “He’s coming back, and I must stay.”
“My father is coming back.”
“Ok,” I say. “Ok,” and walk away.
I look back over my shoulder,
And the sign is still folded over
And she stands there
One hand on the cart
And one on the cane.
All crumpled up
And still in pain.
And the people pass by as she waits.
Is it possible to extend one's life
By intending it to go on.
It must be.
But only if that intent
Is in keeping with the great beyond.
We want a world where nobody is ever harmed - at least not too much.
And we believe that that is goodness.
But it is not goodness.
Lack of harm does not necessarily reflect goodness.
And oftentimes, our attempts to prevent harm cause harm.
So what is goodness?
Love, I think, is goodness.
And it must reside within the heart.
And though it reside within the heart, still, it cannot prevent harm,
Except within the soul of him that loves.
About me, well...
Just another someone like you I suppose.
A lone bird
Soaring toward the sun.
Or better yet
Nobody worth mentioning anyway.
Just words on a page.
Take them or leave them.
And if nobody,
Then alone with my nothingness.
You too, if you like.
Pull up a chair and rest
If you please.
Such a comfort to be nobody.
It's all the same to me.
And sometimes its nice to share the silence.
It's a Trackless Path, you know.
Like birds, we leave no tracks.
Echos in the wind.
The rustle of feathers.
A white flash
And then we're gone.