"What is REAL?" Asked the Rabbit one day.
"Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse."
"It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves
you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit."
"Does it happen all at once,
...or does it happen bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once, ...you become. It takes a long time.
Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
Birthday's coming up.
I pretend not to care, but alone
I see my life imprinted everywhere
on my body, falling, a burnt out star.
"I'm not afraid of death," I lie to myself
remembering past, when I thought
I was too small, frail, terrified
to have strength required for child birth.
Yet, somehow I did.
Nature's lessons are experiential.
So, I'll learn to die,
the way I learned to live.
I believe in simplicity.
But I don't live it.
My house full of stuff.
My mind full of complexities.
My thoughts worry for this world,
then contradict with hope for its survival.
I try to be the peace,
but am aware of others' suffering,
and I wonder
if all the evils I see,
exist somewhere in me.
Some things I don't simply believe,
about love, compassion,
more than I used to.
I savor life.
It tastes different now, less spicy
but so flavorful. Most days sprinkled,
not with sugar, but with sparkling water clarifying
(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)