An autumn rain is peppering the window,
Beatles play on the stereo,
the moment has a breathlessness.
Soon it will inhale, exhale,
then as quickly pass into oblivion,
it contains a puzzle, a question,
so little time to answer its whisper.
Pieces of the day’s life become
gathered up into a plastic Wal-Mart bag,
to be dropped in the waste bin of its passing,
the collected litter of civilized humans.
Structures of wood and brick,
poured concrete slabs on dirt,
only intermittent stamps on the earth,
they too are just a part of the moment.
The day will begin with coffee,
end with wine under a galaxy or stars,
day will become night, night
will commit suicide to the dawn.
Seasons will bury the flowers and
give them glorious life once again.
All the while the impersonal world
wheels about its axis offering an assumption
that there will be a today, a tomorrow.
Bankers will grovel for money,
it is for naught, it means nothing,
politicians fluff their lobbyist infested feathers,
pontificating their egotistical self-indulgence,
countries will engage in killing their own,
religious leaders will pass the plate, offering
their interpreted salvation, the soul’s redemption.
But in the end, each turn of the earth
moves everyone to the brink of their reckoning,
What is important, what will prevail, what
truly has meaning in this life?
Could it be only the earth and its permanence?
This orb is so carelessly misunderstood,
yet, it is the only constant in our moment,
that is the greatest conundrum of life.
©2011, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 