Sunday, April 22, 2012
In the weave of eternity,
with the work before us,
short-term judgements don’t
seem to matter much,
not the praise, nor the blame,
not the credits, nor the sins,
self-imposed or outer-given.
Most of my awards have long been tossed,
every plaque, every trophy,
all the ribbons, certificates and letters.
In the end, just stuff, and
the stories and smiling lies about them are better.
But then, there’s that plastic Club Med medal
with the red, white and blue lanyard
that was given for finding buried wine bottles
off the sandy shore of Martinique -
that one lives on.
And the disability rating letter,
the V.A.’s judgement call – that one
will stay awhile, at least for my forever.
Recently, I got a Beautiful Bloom,
kept in cyberspace.
Then there are the Purple Hearts,
once headed for a protest toss
over the White House fence, but no.
Those are about things and people,
some still kicking, others, well,
others valued fondly in my heart.