It is not a straight road, neatly lain, But a winding path through sun and rain. A single thread within a grand design, A taste of water, and a sip of wine.
It starts a cry, a breath, a blinding light, A helpless form, so fragile and so slight. Then years are swift, on fleeting feet they run, A race begun before it has begun.
The sun will beat upon your upturned face, You’ll find your stride, you’ll triumph in the race. You’ll love and lose, and love again more deep, And plant your dreams in soil you have to keep.
Then shadows lengthen, coolness touches air, A silver thread is woven through your hair. The frantic pace gives way to thoughtful pace, You see the lines of wisdom on each face.
You’ll know the weight of grief, the sting of sorrow, Not knowing what awaits you on the morrow. You’ll feel the joy that makes the spirit soar, And question what all all the struggle’s for.
It’s in the laugh that echoes in the hall, The quiet pride when you have given your all. The hand you hold, the kindness you bestow, The seeds of grace you didn’t know you’d sow.
So weave it well, with courage and with truth, Through fiery youth and contemplative youth. For life’s a fabric, rich and vast and deep, A waking dream, a promise that we keep. A fleeting, brilliant, complicated spark— A journey through the coming of the dark.
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