Another Day

Another Day

Another day of routine struggle

When empty minutes pound my soul.

A different kind of sadness,

It doesn’t hurt, its blade is dull.

Standing back and taking stock,

A reflection of each branch, each leaf,

My life with all its high points

And troubled murmurs underneath.

My disappointments and my losses,

A space to them is given,

Not to brood or ignore them,

But an integral part of living.

My good times, I’ve enjoyed them,

But the result remains the same,

A man alone of thoughts and bone

Not knowing who to blame.

– John E Leahy

ca 1972