When you stop to think about it,
Or when you stop to think;
Is life like a poem writ?
On a page with still wet ink?

Could the ink be of the normal sort?
Or white, and silky, with dreams?
A message, perhaps, with which fates consort,
Ink and parchment the same color, it seems.

If you can’t tell the ink from the page,
How can you tell what’s written there?
A melody, half-heard, from a bird half-caged
or half of a hoof-print, from a half-hidden, deer.

If life has been around forever,
and forever has been around longer than some,
Why is it assumed life would never,
Leave us in search of something more fun?

Is life, then, slave of destiny?
Are we, then, slaves to stay?
If we weren’t, then, would we be free?
Or would we have lost our way?

So many questions, so little time.
but is time really the issue here?
I can feel life, patient, sublime,
With so much time, how can it remain sincere?

How many blades of grass are in an infinite field?
Just how many infinite fields are there?
If, in the middle of the field flutters a bird nearly killed,
From which side should he steer clear?

In a field like that, how do you reach the edge?
Would you go to the center, to help the bird?
Would the bird, in turn, help you climb over the ledge,
that overhangs a stream gently stirred?

Do you follow the stream because it leads somewhere?
Or is the current what you’ve been looking for?
Not that somewhere is either here, or there,
But here or there, to somewhere might be a door.