Some lives are taken by bullets,
some lives are taken by pens.
My life is not about being here,
but about what it leaves behind.
It is not memory nor remembrance of me,
but the experience one soul had
seeing buds turn into blossoms
and blossoms feed the cycle of the earth.
It will not be measured so much in years
as in shades and textures and contrasts.
It will not be seen as ample by some,
but it was forever bursting to me as sunshine from clouds.
Only I can imagine what was not shared,
but that would be as true at ninety as at fifty,
and when its' entirety is counted, as it can not be here on earth,
I know it was as long as it should have been.