It is funny

It is funny how it seems there will always be time left,

to write that book,

or plant those Peonies,

or publish the children’s book.

 

The one that you’ve written,

and rewritten,

dozens of times, but

are still not happy with.

 

It’s funny how everything

appears much crisper,

the beauty jumping out at you,

Making you want to cry,

when you finally understand.

 

That though you’ve suffered,

so much, it does not

exclude you from more

suffering.

 

Weary as you are,

even the pain is something

of value, that you wish

to hold onto, if

it means you can

capture more life.

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