The Time of Our Lives
This, then, is what we are
given.
ten or twenty thousand
days
wherein we watch
a billion leaves
born then blush, fall
turn to earth, to silt,
to ash so soft
it will not bear a name.
from this black dust
we make our things,
clothes
shelter, jewelry
fiction--
stories in which
we seek conclusion,
our highest
and most dangerous
invention.
for this culling of days
this harvest of dust
gathers meaning only
by our watching, our
being,
our sensation of
what is forever being
given —
that our bodies
are really only leaves
seeking light
loved at last
by the wind.
— Tony Taccone
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