I have given up the idea of an ideal.
I no longer envision a moment
when I’ll slap my hands together
in a satisfactory clearing of the imaginary
dust of this “job well done,”
and plop down
in my easy chair,
drink in hand
as the world sings together
all the live long day.
Except every evening.
I once heard a sage on a stage say
we draw our strength from
a secret conviction:
“In the end, life wins.”
I don’t know which end he meant–
But his words settle in my glass,
and mingle with the fearful swill
of other more present whispers,
shushing them into sleepy solace
that the coming day is nigh.
thanks to Mary Pierce Brosmer and Walter Brueggmann for the inspiration