The Only Life We Have
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Time will catch us by surprise;
Reach out with greedy talons,
Scratching moments from our eyes.
Bucolic broccoli lives.
Born again Christians,
Prophets all.
Born again and again and again.
Each measured moment choose
Which crier’s call.
Moments laid by each to waste;
Unseen, unused, unanswered.
Gone,
With contents never faced.
No touch unopened such
As gift embraced.
Alive.
Dripping in remission.
This world was taught to us.
How to live, was not.
All cheeks touched;
by brushed and gnarled,
Sinewed hand of God,
Who walks the fields
Of flowing wheat
Between each downy hair
On each surrendered arm,
Soothing voice, alluding voice,
Walking softly,
Long through single minds.
Embracing flowered memory-beams,
Son, and He and We, entwined.
Touched in mornings
When the body’s most alive.
Held in evenings
When the fragile soul can least survive.
Reached with broken arms,
Stunted thoughts,
Impaled on jagged edge of broken spirit.
Holiness escapes us
In each moments frigid death;
Each life from all,
Torn in silenced breath.
Wiser men so soon become,
Our younger Gods,
And we will make this new life work
Because it is the only one we have.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
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