The Art of Surviving
The leaf hangs on,
one of the last
still on the trees as you walk the quarry,
full of fire and life
in it’s last days,
of storms and seasons,
that surviving is more than lasting,
it is carrying your color with you
all the way to the end.
It is an art,
half toughness, half creativity,
and always, full of magic.
About this poem
I woke up feeling old this morning. Tired. Depressed. Then my anger kicked in. “I will not give in to a dead life.” I said. “I will not.”. I got up. I played Dire Straits as I fixed breakfast. I danced as I cooked bacon. And sat down and wrote this poem, in a much better place.
Off to work for a living.
PS – the picture was taken in the quarry across the street, on Sunday afternoon.
a word of life for living life….thank you.