Friday, March 27, 2015


            How silly to have thought that out of dust,
            Of dirt, of mud, of clay there might arise
            Spontaneously a creature with a lust
            For life and the intent of growing wise.

            And yet we’re here and doubly sapient,
            Aware that we’re aware and aiming higher;
            Though wisdom is not clearly evident,
            It is the prospect toward which we aspire.

            But still we’re far from mastering that art,
            And folly, more than wisdom, seems our game,
            And sapience means more than being smart,
            But is a penchant for avoiding blame.

                 We’ll know we have fulfilled our destiny
                 When happiness is our propensity.