It came to me like snails come to gardens

Ready to consume

A trail of slime leads

Towards

Leaves and pine

This thing called living

The importance of it

Thee un-important parts of it

This thing that is death may move with haste or haste without

It may move slow to fill you with dread and doubt

We appreciate it cause we are it

Alive and dead to death

Yet we dance abreast

A flamenco of youth

To a waltz of wisdom

Finally slow clap in chair

Applaud the band as the ship sinks

Like looking for lost clothes in a

pile full, we look for purpose.

Every once in awhile we find just the trousers we were looking for.