On being temporary

​

and so I see

it is not forever

this body and this soul

neither the blessings

not the luxury of complaint

my glory and my ruin

and everything in between

​

this present reality

of all I touch and taste and feel and see

to me

more important than the fate of the nations

yet only

a tiny seed

visible, blooming, gone

​

I watched a man

my father

reading on his favourite chair

through distance and glass

secretly because

I could not enter

(out of love, not estrangement)

​

that scene too, is temporary

a tiny stitch in a tapestry

as beautiful in part as it is in whole

​

and so

I will be thankful

​

​

Andy