. . . alack the heavy day, that I have worn so many winters out, and know not now what name to call myself.
________________________- William Shakespeare , Richard the Second
Maybe that's me sitting on the bench, head
dropped between the knees . . . exhausted. And playing
the role of a stranger, my eyes engraving
the earth between my dusted feet with the lead
tip of a heavy mind. Not a scattered
journey's end, but winters to know what being
human is about, enough of fleeing
the mind's shelter and then being gathered
back to reclaim it. And maybe that's
you sitting next to me, arm draped over
my shoulders with the audience listening
(just like me), whispering "we all live with bread,
feel want, taste grief, and need friends". And then I
leave what the light filled, for a few steps up the road.