On the Meaning of Life
Each morning the sun sparkles our eyes,
As we ask why in the cool sunrise.
And each year we touch others with hands,
With souls – not knowing just where one stands.
Of this nothing the something now comes—
Or are we nothing: half with no sums.
Ask a full moon in a frame of trees—
It knows and nods, and so gently flees.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2006
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