I do not know what sent me.
Who imagined my existence.
Who said, Ted! Rise from the ashes
of a pure snowfall,
come from the reflection of the pool,
leave the cave of forever night,
and be born into yourself.
Come sit on the stoop of life
and listen to the hush of all silences.
Learn the return all things face.
Which door did I come through?
Through what door will I leave?
And how much can I take?
All I own will be my soul.
What I did will fade away.
What I intended will be meaningless,
but what I am,
what I live with,
what aches and pains,
and consummated joys I put in my bones,
will stay with me.
For how long doesn’t matter.
If death is a swan song,
a falling call,
a single awareness of what I was,
became,
and leave with,
it will matter only to myself.
And what sent me,
or made me,
or cried out that I be,
and lived a few seconds with me.
It is my friend,
not something I’ll read in the paper,
or discuss over breakfast,
but by myself.
Depending on the time of day,
I’ll cry over,
or laugh over,
or pray,
that all the doors I’ve shut,
will open again and let me in.