a work in progress

The other day I felt my life with both my hands.
It felt like sinking my palms into a bed of grass
blades slipping through my fingers to sway in the wind.

The earth.
Much like a blade of grass,
we are born of the dust of the earth.

Fragile blades and beings as we are,
we are also resilient.

The reaper could have called me home.
Hell, I could have called to him from my doorstep if Id wanted to.
Still,
He would have gazed upon me and wailed a frustrated laugh.

Cheated.
No one likes to be cheated.
But to be cheated by death.
And to have been cheated so unknowingly.
Well I suppose that was a gift.

I still don't know what life truly is.
What it truly means to live.
Probably because of its relative definition,
But I know that I truly felt my life the other day.

It was suspended by strings and pulled up into the air before me.
I stared dumbstruck and with more curiosity than fear.
And when that reaper's scyth slid out from that rooftop,
I stared him straight in those hollowed out eye holes and dared him to do his worst.

The string was cut.
My life was falling. I reached out my hands to catch it,
And it began instead to fly.

It took a lap around the block before finally nesting into my palms.
Dust, wind, grass, life
All born of the earth.
All bound to the earth and its daily routines.
Who would have known that life could also feel so free.