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When life is losing its meaning,
And the glorious colors grow pale,
And death seems the one destination,
Remember the humble toad,
Doomed to spend drier days
Digging deep in the arid ground,
Seeking survival and shelter,
But to be loving and birthing,
It later returns to the flow
Of a resilient milieu that bestows
The clarity of radiant expanse
And the nudges of buoyant kin.

Perhaps the insular, dreary days
Are partly an illusion
And existence points not to the grave,
But to a metamorphosis,
In which we shed these calloused feet
And bathe in the nurturing nexus
Of our birth-home, the sea.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

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