Transformation

An old truck body sits rusted in the field Is this a fitting end for which its made? The hours of sweat that men did yield For occasional rabbit to seek its shade. A rope is finally frayed to break No longer fit to do its chore. Have the men who made it, made a mistake, For soon the rope will be no more. China lies broken at the foot of the bay The hands from which its made, deceased. The wood of the cabin has rotted away As we ponder what’s been increased. Is there a gain from the losses that each endure? What purpose each moment that’s given to sacrifice? When nothing remains of the noble thought so pure But waste on the side of the road to paradise. It’s not the destination, but the journey, so they say. We live to grow the seeds within our soul. The refuse of our litter all along the traveled way We leave to pay our passage as a toll. The world is not increased by us, in some material way. The measure of a life is not by “things”. From birth to growth, and death - decay, True meaning lies in what experience brings. The old truck body, left to sit within the field No longer serves the purpose of its birth. Its body, now transformed, its fate is sealed. Its beauty moved from coarse to finer worth. Each moment sacrifices its life for the delivery of its content.