It Is Morning
by Johnny Rustywire
I woke up early this morning and some questions came to me,
you know the basic ones.
Who Am I?
Where Am I going?
Where do I come from?
What do I believe in?
Nothing too serious,
just the major ones that come to you once in a while.
Yesterday I was confronted with my own mortality.
Someone asked me to answer these questions for him,
and they are the ones that make everything pale by comparison.
This person is severely ill
and may not be here by Christmas.
It is one of the moments
when someone looks at you clearly in the eye
and you can see a little of their soul,
wondering if everything will be alright when all else fails…
wanting to hear that yes things will be ok
when taking the next breath is hard to do
and dawn seems so far away.
Tell me he says how is it outside,
are the trees turning green,
how does the sun feel
and did you hear the birds sing,
tell me about them,
how do they look
and how did they fly.
I stood there and wondered
how do you answer such things
and in reflecting on this I wondered
what is it about life that makes each day new,
and how do we go on no matter what happens to each of us.
How do you look into someone's soul
and see that person standing there,
in a second,
by hearing them say a word or two
or stopping you and asking for a hand.
I am wondering
do we really hear what they say.
Am I listening,
but moreover do I have any idea where I am going,
where have I been
and if by chance I might have an answer that I could give.
It is these questions that have come to me this morning
and the answers seem so trite,
so meaningless,
because we tend to say yes, everything will be ok,
and we don't really know at times.
Is it a kind word,
a human touch
and giving time to someone who really is asking
will you be there for me when all things go wrong, and I am not sure what to do.
I have to ask myself…
am I strong enough to carry your burdens, hopes and wants,
or will I shy away and go on not really looking into the soul of another
and think about the little things,
lunch,
work,
and paying the bills
when such questions are posed…
volume 12(9)
May 1, 2008
This poem is copyright © 2005,
Johnny Rustywire, all rights reserved.
Find more poems by Johnny Rustywire.
The Web Projects of Sondra Ball and Mario Cavallini
