How easy it is to miss a life
Counting and counting my own small pile of days
Like a child hoards pieces of candy
Reluctant to consume one
And have less.
We are, like the winds, born
In the tiniest disturbance of matter
And when we end where do we go?
We go where the winds end
When they die.
Darkest isn’t black but shades of periwinkle and twilight
When lights that could be on are off and almost but not all is quiet
Dark is an unplugged Christmas tree, or a part-burnt candle unlit
Or when the power’s out and you throw a light switch
Eyes dead: that’s as dark as anything can get.
©2013 Jason Anderson