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Poem
Nobody knows how life will play out-
the steps of a journey marching through each scene,
for futurity is sightless, only the beginning has eyes.

Nobody knows the number of heartbeats...
no artist, craftsman, designer, seascapist,
no orchestrator or sculptor- no medium empowered 
with her crystal ball.

"If only", we say, then we would change most all that has been,
and all that will be, for failures want to become otherwise,
grappling for second chances and polished prizes.

We count up all grievances, blaming anyone and anything
but ourselves, unable to see or foretell the future,
as the crystal ball is lost in the squalor of dead-end-streets
ending at the brick wall, where brittle leaves are huddled in
a funeral pile, for they too did not know their destiny, their fate
left to the slightest breeze.

Two cars colliding at the intersection- a wreckage which
a moment in time could have changed- futures guided by
one misstep, one misspoken word, one slip on pen, a brief
sweep of a secondhand, a slight hesitation- as quickly as
the clouded breath exhaled on a winter's day.

We wait for the scroll to unfold, or perhaps a new dance,
or the chance to gambol about in the script of life's cabaret.
But nobody knows, no visionary, no king or queen, for 
top-shelf trophies are always out of reach.


Nobody knows how close we are to God's embrace.
The world is constantly heading somewhere, on the
cusp of a new symphony, or a vessel's moonsail, a
prologue to the captain's destiny into unchartered waters
to exotic lands, or just a cruel twisted fate 
hidden behind perfumed veils.

Idealists search for answers as time sneaks by,
for all the possibilities that may never appear.
The past has already docked on shores never to sail again.

We are cuffed to this day, so let regrets drift away.
Conduct the dance that is only ours. It should not
be shoved into pockets to save, but to spend and savor,
to relish and taste.
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