The rose that spends all of time
Dancing in the light
Is as sure to die
As the one that just
Cries in the dark.
Beauty moves as light moves
Opening petals to sing at the sun
Lowering snoods to weep at the moon
Finding sparks from the shining sky
Finding fuel from the dirt of its roots.
So at midnight’s chill, rejoice!
The sun will rise.
At noon’s furnace, rejoice!
The sun will set.
Babies look stupid.
They bobble like jello.
They fall and laugh.
They fall and cry.
Always falling, falling, falling.
They stumble,
Drunken winos
Crashing, breaking,
All within reach.
They do not care.
They do not embarrass.
But take the next step.
Take the next step.
And then?
They turn into ballerinas, gymnasts, sprinters, and strongmen.
They turn into builders, hauling bricks to make palaces.
They turn into surgeons, standing hours to stitch a new heart.
They turn into teachers, chaperoning the next brood.
Babies don’t care.
Be a baby.
If you are no longer the hero
In your own narrative
Change the narrative
Or change your actions.
Probably both.
It is sometimes comforting to realize something must be uncomfortable.
To quell the worry, I told her I’d like a crystal ball to see the future.
“Don’t,” she said, “for you’ll focus on future horrors and miss all the future pleasures.”
A. B. Clarke 