Every day has births and deaths,
Not
one of them routine,
While
most of us are dealing with
The
stuff that comes between.
The
entries and the exits
To
and from our varied lives
Give
no clue to an observer
Of
who struggles or who thrives.
The
baby, just emerging,
Is
a blank, unblemished slate,
While
the dying must accept that
Any
change will be too late.
For
the rest of us, we’re kind of like
The
filling in the bread,
Our
days the sustenance between
The
newborn and the dead.
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