Reflections

My restless reckless imagination
Searches my myths for solutions.
Listening to the minstrels sing
Songs from love’s poetry

The lid rattles constantly
On the cauldron of my past
A simmering soup,
Heated by my experiences.
Shared, or private;
Mostly joyous;
Thou not all are so

Such are the rewards of a full life
That is possibly complete and yet.
This child strides ahead on wiser legs
Still curious, eyes open, allowing, waiting

Last spring’s leaves rustle dryly,
Tumbling along uneven ground,
While lonely winter winds search
For Sabbaths to observe.
Not knowing the questions,
Leads to unknown answers
That fill unheard sermons.

The congregation nods politely
Tithing their righteous dues.
Conforming would be easier
Than asking the next question
While finding my own truth.

I am comfortable rattling along
Inside this odyssey.
It is who I am.