O

Easy to forget, even when you think yourself older and wiser,

Easy to rush along, getting things done, easy to overlook,

To overbook your afternoons, to let the years pass,

Quietly hoping pain will not last.

.

But what of joy? Bird outside your morning window

Sings her song, leaves on ancient trees are falling,

Life counts not only in seasons and months,

Even our hours come only once.

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What of happiness? Are you always to count and wait?

Low feeling to dominate long blues between highs?

When you sense an opening, are you mad to leap,

Lacking a clear sense of what you seek?

.

Contentment? Transcending events, emotions, space,

Keeps its own pace, balance of chemistry in cells.

Without pause to sense your own energy  

How will you know its memory?

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And what of love? That ever-changing thing of mad youth,

With its own colours for truth, and many disguises.

Dare you turn your head when you recognize its voice?

Dare you reaffirm that choice?

.

Kampala 2018