So Why Figure We?

Our days are like a whispering wind,

which blow and blow unto their timely end.

Even our paths were lain before we even were,

as are our steps numbered here on this earth.

We strike out hands in vain against flesh and bone,

We, even in our finality, write our last poems in stone.

So why figure we

if we be so strong and mighty?

Why should tomorrow even be to us a concern,

if we in our haughty wisdom, are so able to discern.

For we are likened unto a green field of rye,

Whereas from seed and soil it sprung

Blessed and nurtured unto its maturity,

Only…oh only…to whither and die.

So why figure we?

J. Allen Wilson © 2005

www.Jallenwilson.com