This is almost as precarious as a pile of spindly books , stacked carelessly
Almost as weak as a skinny twig , snapping away with a crackle
Almost as brittle as fallen Autumn leaves , crumbling down
As delicate as a fine string of yarn, threads falling apart at the slightest tug
As short-lived as ripples in water, hypnotic just for those few breaths
As fleeting as sighting a shooting star when you were 5, when you simply would not risk looking away from the sky for a second
…worried it might vanish just like that.
Yes, maybe it is all these things.
But, one of these days
Maybe, just maybe it’ll be one of those things fulfilling enough
Like warm sunrays grazing your face on spring mornings
Like sweet wafts of fragrance from beds of Jasmines and Roses
Like the cool azure of a summer sky , greeting and cheerful
Like the green of lush meadows , humble and musical
And I think I might just make it until it is.