When I think of all the future graces, <br />For which I am supposed to feel so grateful- <br />It feels like a huge, sticky cloud <br />Has obscurred everything worthwhile <br />And sucked out whatever gladness there might have been. <br />I begin to understand how the aged <br />Might start to feel an unholy resentment <br />At the dawning of each successive day, <br />Which comes whether you desire it or not- <br />Even if there is nothing left to look ahead to. <br />Still, if all my blood somehow oxidized tomorrow, <br />Or the flesh crept off all the bones stealthily <br />To lie in rippled pools on the ground <br />(like the way witches melt in certain well known tales) <br />Know that the corporeal remains <br />Would still send up a reverberating joy- <br />The unending gratitude of the song of matter.<br /><br />Patti Masterman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-i-think-of-all-the-future-graces/
