A Wisp of Life

I give up some days.
I give up and lie down,
slowly on the bed of prickly grass,
searching for the slow turning of the Earth.
I never find it, childish dreams anyways.
It's usually nighttime,
the moon a blur through my half open eyes,
or half closed,
and the crickets, they sing in a strange language.
I count my goals in my mind,
each and every star so far away,
so I let them go,
I let it all go.
I can see them swirl away from my grasp,
like smoke.
Then, I let raindrops fall,
plunk on the hard ground around me,
each a satisfying sound,
and I hold onto the strange sweetness in my heart,
like honeysuckle nectar,
that tells me this, too, is only a single frame of life.
I close my eyes, yes, I close my eyes then,
and count each humid breath,
as I listen to the blurred night,
waltzing slowly,
extending an inviting hand.

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