If I could see tomorrow,

know what the day would bring,

would I just stay sitting here,

under this talking , whispering oak,

or run all the way to Samara.

The rustling leaves,

whisper to me,

disturbing news of tomorrow,

or is it of possible tomorrows?

Why do oracles always speak in whispers,

or riddles,

or in the rustling of leaves.

Can’t we just tell the truth,

The truth is that we will all die,

no matter what the rustling leaves say,

or promise.

.

The only real question,

the last remaining true one,

is how do I live my life between now and then.

 

© words and picture by Dan DeMarle 2017