When I consider what little control
I muster over my life and each day,
it’s simpler to get honest and console
myself of reality—the clear way
I may feel my heart rhythm rise from waltz
to rock as I climb a hill, matched by lungs'
surge—body designed by weaver who plaits
flesh, bone, blood and breath, their rampant cells clung
together with intricate artistry.
My mind wanders; my tongue, too. Lungs and heart
find their own way, as do fellows and free
loved ones despite my fears. We rise and start
our days with prayer, it seems, coping with pain,
joy, work and rest. Pray, sleep, and rise again.
Roger Armbrust
October 17, 2008
