My inscription is not listed among the dead.
In time that posture will have its long awaited privilege,
given the peculiarity of consequence        and certainty.
For now, I tread upon the treadmill of time
where it’s difficult to find balance,             even after
tossing up a blade of grass to see which way
the wind bows and bows, for I’m nothing more than a brown
leaf blown in the wind.                   My essence doesn’t represent
forward progress.            I digress with frivolous speech.
Someday, I will sod a part and parcel of earth.      Someday.
Hopefully a sprinkler system will on a daily basis
quench my thirst.              There, I will find rest from my life
bound by contemptible behavior.               Plant me as a tree and see
if I don’t return as a wooden lamppost looking sentinel,
where birds take to perch,            and animals find refuge from
the storms of daylight,    and earthly contempt.

© 2018 by emmett wheatfall