It seems like little, I know
Nothing to make the earth shake
Only three more pounds, you say
Yet three might well be thirty or three hundred
For it’s not the number, but the weight of its counting
Every now and again
Thick clouds suffocate the sky
Gray is just another color and doesn’t last, you say
Still, it’s not the dark that bothers me so much
As the loss of the sun whose palette colors the light
Call me a fool, I suppose
For failing to hear magic
In the evening’s solitude
Peaceful silence may calm the troubled spirit
But its empty voice also sings of the coming death
These are small matters to most
Grains of sand on Life’s big beach
The heart knows that truth as well
Yet the head still trips over boulders pitting
reality’s road, whose craters cannot be ignored
Fifty and Counting 