Every single little thing
and big thing
looming, pounding, festering
needing done
in one swift moment. . .

this life, this breath
each is a gift
that, in itself,
needs no bettering. . .

so, be still,
or move,
however you can find the love,
the joy, the fun–

and take it all
down off the shelf
and broad afield. . .

And–here’s the deal–
some good will come,
as you forge on–

no matter how the petty voices
might respond,
or how dissuading
their under-understanding comment.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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