My Bargain

 

I hardly expect my words to live and grow

like little seeds in fertile earth,

but rather they drift out

more like motes on the breeze,

landing where they will

without direction or purpose.

 

So much for sounds and breath,

so much for my meanings

so earnestly sought by careful thought

and given up to time and space,

captured by some other minds.

 

We seldom think of this, the act,

the transformation of the chemistry

with which our minds conjure

this or that enunciated “truth”

to tell our world we live and speak.

 

And in some distant grave or ash

no trace of all our sounds remain

to signal we were here and told

of what we were and what we knew.

 

Is this important for the present day,

wherein I pour my coffee, read my books?

Must I tell my self these things

of which I cannot see or know,

to simply make a bargain

that might assuage my fears?

 

A bargain that my mind can feel?

The bargain that my life is real?