by Trish Cozart
What does it mean…my life is a poem?
It skips along in iambic pentameter.
It tip taps tenaciously in time
and reason of a complexity of words
and interactions I dare to understand.
What does it mean… my life is a song?
It flows like a melodious tune
drifting from time to time
from place to place repeating its
rhythms, like a simile, or making
ghost notes that no one hears.
What does it mean…my life is a prayer?
That I live with my heart wide open
for all the dust and dirt to blow freely
upon it. Beating wildly for the world,
only to realize it is broken. Crying
desperately to fix that which I have no control.