Softly, the wind pushes the limbs and the leaves of the sycamore, and sound rattle for all to enjoy
Slowly, slyly, our little ones wake up to the ones to carry on, to sing the song
Who was the breeze to push you along?
Who saw a promise yet unborne in you?
Who was that little push that help you become you?
From this and that we can grow like a weed unlike forlorn of lost in the silence of death to become, while pummeling through life we careen and lead.
Still, whom saw that song or mystique or drama so soon in you?
Whom saw the one before your first song?
Whom did give you that little push, a direction, of love and affection and hope and life, before your knew a right from a wrong?
That little push?
They, are who you are, with just a little push. A push of hope of life of presence, a hope of stone alight and a hope of love.
Is it like a ribbon without end?
A road with a sign?
Can it be that pushing along is what we do for
Love and life, and Love again?