On Being.

I can see, lucky me.
Over there
in that tree.
Faces,
so many;
tracings of leaf and twig.
Laughing, giggling, sighing, crying,
in among the branches,
joking,cursing,lying,dying.

I can hear, lucky me
the sighing wind.
How I'd love to be plucked like a leaf
and flung through those branches,
chasing the faces
with all their airs and graces
and howl at the sky.

I can speak,
just about.
A whisper not a shout,
but scream
with every fibre of my being,
when the world has forgotten me.

I sit here daily and see, hear and cry.
I sit here and watch.

Then little miracles happen by.
Do I understand?

Sometimes I'm grateful for successes so small.
Sometimes, unaware of them at all.

I sit here daily,
sometimes keenly sometimes vaguely
aware of life beyond a wheelchair.
Triumphant in spirit
broken in body.
Yes, I feel sorry,
yes, I worry.
But then I remember -
little miracles
go by each day as I sift through the hours.

And then I remember,
I remember to be
very small.
Just to be
the seed of that tree;
of every tree,
of every flower,
of every day,
of every hour.
Just to be.