Days: By David R. Bush
Sitting in the park today, I realized how much nature is a part of all our lives. The oak trees were ripe with falling acorns, the wind blew gently across my neck, as the sun beat strongly on my forehead. I quietly pondered my existence as I watched children play on see-saws and jungle gyms. Their giggles filled me with wonderment at the whole process of growing up, growing old, almost all in an instant.
It seems like just yesterday I was climbing trees myself and swimming in deep cool suburban pools. I never thought I'd have grey hair or wrinkles or sagging belly. It's life's cruel joke that we must all take in stride. What choice do we have? The more we fight against the inevitable, the more we make ourselves unhappy. The green hazy shades with their spotty mystery take my attention away momentarily from my musings. How many parks have I sat in? How many days have gone by? How many do I have left?
Whether the days are long or come the winter, short, they whisper a little joke to me. They say, "We will always be here, but you will not." Perhaps, one day, I will become part of the very days I count. I am the day, and I shine down upon another poet resting his weary legs on a bench. I am the day, I say: here I am, here I stay. Days eternal, not knowing a finite conclusion to all my thoughts and my dreams. Over so quick , try as I might.
Sweet days of failure, sweet days of success. Expressions of loneliness, written in sweat. One day, two, a hundred I regret. Yes, I am the day, my friend, I am the light, not knowing pain, but also no delight. To be human, is to live, hard and free, from the moment we're born, the world knew me. Alas, it begins again, every moment in time, but not for me, I am old, and days are like leaves. In Autumn they fall, from tall, ever-wise trees.
Sentiments abound here, but what I want to say to all is be happy, hug someone today, be kind, and do your best. For one day, for all of us, it comes to a rest.
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