About The Why of It

What are all of these words
really? Nothing more than
a bid for remembrance?
To know that my presence
has made some sort
of difference? Faint hope
that distilled essence
will have meaning
long after I am gone?

As if I’ll care when
I’m no longer here,
nor there, or even remember
myself. Silly woman sitting
in morning’s chair, doodling
on paper, these mumbled
prayers, supposedly poems
looking for permanent homes
in a world completely unmoved,
as uncaring as stone.

No, this isn’t being done
for posterity’s sake, this
making of words is not
for my children, or for
their children’s children.
This doing on paper,
words that leave only
a fading mark, disappearing
even as they appear in stark
contrast to empty space,
seeking a place to become,
wanting birth on this earth
that just keeps spinning in its
own mind made darkness.

This doodling of doings
is only for me, finding
its true home alone, deep
in my soul, where a careless
sea of images call to be
sorted, courted one at a time,
gluing themselves together
in rhymes that I might remember,
just where I’ve been and won’t
get lost as I toss my way
toward whatever I am still
to become.

Elizabeth Crawford  2/9/09