Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Sheila Henry

I question myself
at this stage of life,
a lot of living behind me,
more than three scores and ten
and not as much ahead—I surmise.

A junction reached for pause
to take inventory,
no more forks in the road to worry about,
no more big decisions to be made.
Well, maybe just a few.

A time to count accomplishments.
What have I done with my life to date,
am I living on purpose with joy?
Married young, birthed two sons, worked for others,
gifted my time to some and fell in love maybe once,
traveled to far off lands because I was curious,
and boy, Oh boy, did I dance.

What can I share
to those who will follow in my footsteps
I’d like to reveal some stories.
It seems like I might have done quite a bit.
Scratching my head though; where to begin.

I don’t remember a thing
the events of so long ago
choose to be forgotten.
Yet the stories, yet the stories,
plead to be told.

Knocking at every portal
for entry—but who will tell them,
who will sit quietly
at the wee hours of dawn
watching the leaves sway –
at the urging of a gentle breeze.

Who will wait for the sun to rise
to bring in the day’s light…
and just purge on blank pages,
who will drag the stories
from the depths of my soul where
they have rested for so long?
Hmmm! I question myself.


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