Here, I give to you these trifling things
Heated by light, love and increasing age,
Life’s diverse experiences distilled
And dripped in patterns upon the page.
They are little more than wisps of breath
Or, as distillation from the human chest,
Form essence of sorrow, love, joy, hope or pain
Which must pour forth before final rest.
If they are lighter than thistledown,
Slight, a deception or a mere seeming,
They still stem from the heart’s deep desire
To struggle and search for purpose and meaning.
Some build tall towers or beautiful bridges.
These are merely the heart’s desire to sing,
But here, take them as gifts that I offer,
These distillations, these essences, these trifling things.