“Our lives are to be used and thus to be lived as fully as possible, and truly it seems that we are never so alive as when we concern ourselves with other people.” _Harry Chapin ~ It seems new but it’s the same. I am seeing them on the street corners and in my dreams. I’m surrounded by them; shells of flesh leaning on bone. They are smiling, these great empty mouths with love oozing into the gray stream of childhood. Time is man’s creation, shaped to hold the air away from love, made to shroud the mother’s goodness and mask reality in minutes. I am sitting on the porch in awe of the wind lifting the leaves away from summer’s shade that retreats with the birds calling down from the heavens. The hungry are nearing them with each painful smile, each uneaten meal and shattered heart. I am among them. I breathe near their crisis, near enough to glimpse the crimson ache, yet far enough away to remain unscathed. The world is drying up from man’s refuse, sympathy curdling with
(The Weaver's Song)