Legacy

Nor wealth, nor fame, nor progeny have I, And when I slip these churlish bonds to fly To whither souls unfettered go to die, No shooting star will herald my departure 'cross the sky. Perhaps someday a budding poet will find This legacy of verse I'll leave behind. He'll see no wit nor wisdom for the ages Nor note my name writ large in lists of sages. But if words have magic, he'll read mine and believe A life on stage and page was how I chose to live, And when the time was come for me to leave, A winsome wealth of words Was the most I could bequeath. My name may not live long in history, And even if, perchance, my verse survives, It may not alter destinies or lives, But if its humor, grace, and style Can give its readers cause to smile, Then I'm content that's what my legacy is meant to be. Author's note: We are the legacy we leave behind. Haley's Comet marked the entrance and the exit of my favorite writer, Mark Twain. A scant four months after my arrival World War II erupted, and, given the horrendous state of world affairs since then, I sometimes shudder to think what is waiting to usher me off stage. I can only hope that if my meager words somehow manage to survive, they will help to soften the blow.