It’s all because you want to stay alive.

Why breathe, eat or sleep,
defecate or urinate,
hug your mate
in a love supreme,
and squeeze your grandkids
till they squirm with delight?

Why bathe or shower,
wash your hair,
walk the dog, feed the cat,
clip your nails
or see your doctor once a year
and get colonoscopied every five?

If you don’t become creatively realized,
you may as well let the carrion beetles,
mites and maggots have their way,
or you can listen to the blowing wind one day
as your ashes are scattered
over roiling whitecaps on Sturgeon Bay.

My poems, the voice of my soul,
sing about adventures I’ve had,
the rivers I’ve traveled, the rapids
and rivulets on Bash-Bish Falls,
and the clear, limpid pools
of moments of stillness.

Above pristine waters of Copake Lake,
I searched for the way,
hoping the ghost of Sacagawea
would be my eternal guide,
tether me to the ground,
and keep all shadowy figures at bay.

My writing will leave an imprint,
a footprint in the sand,
a monument for myself, more eternal
than the air.

Gone, but not forgotten,
maybe turned into a star.