The Rememberings

There is a sense, a middle ground,
That seeks its space without sound.

It is a balance, it is quite fine.
I’ve found it in both yours and mine.

It works with giving as with taking,
With destruction as with making.

It measures things, that’s what it does.
Things to be and that which was.

When I give and give again,
To a foe as well as friend,

There is a move, a calibration.
It’s an internal operation.

Sometimes I feel I give too much.
Like I’m a tool or a crutch.

It leaks out, then brings relief.
It makes you feel like a thief.

And too compelled, to then give.
It feeds hearty ways to live.

Whether you give to me or they.
Your want to give will find a way.

For we all too have this sense.
A people’s income and expense.

And so you take, and so you pay.
There’s not a word that I must say.

This thing works without a word.
I know it sounds quite absurd. . .

Things are changing as I write.
There is a battle, there is a fight,

Between the old and the new.
I’m at a loss at what to do.

There is no one that I would serve.
And so I wait and I observe.

And when in doubt I give again,
To a foe as well as friend.

It makes me feel less indebted.
And help save up for where I’m headed.

So let us swap, let us trade.
Let us be proud of what we’ve made.

Let’s be thrilled for what’s to come.
The old is ending, we’re not done.