I got some news last week about a young man whose cancer had returned. The doctor told him he would live six months without treatment and a year with treatment. I thought about how I would feel getting that news. And then I wrote this poem. It’s called LIFE.
People die.
Some are 80 or 90
42 or 13.
Nobody chooses.
Who is to say why?
Or even how?
Does it ever
Seem fair?
It’s just life
Doing what life does
Taking twists
And turns.
Leaving us
To contemplate either
The big mess
Of it all
Or…
The biggest gift
We could ever
Be given.
