Don’t ask a bluebird to be green,
snow to be warm,
the ocean to stop reflecting the sky.

Don’t paint a seagull shameful red,
sunshine a dreary grey,
my living heart the coldest blue.

	I could be thin, you know,
	slim, slender, svelte.
	I’ve done it before.
	No trouble at all,
	just follow the plan,
	lots of this, none of that,
	precisely this much of the other.

	Early morning meetings,
	the scale decides—
	feel bad, feel good—
	bright colors or black,
	tight pants or baggy.

	Adhere to this gospel.

Or not.

Immense hunger—
for life, for love,
for all kinds of delicious,
welcoming everything that 
caresses my tongue,
my mind, my heart:

Don’t ask me to live anything less.

‘T’would seem quite true I never was	
the captain of this ship,		
though in my youth I did believe	
in charting my own trip.			

But Master Time has made it clear	
how lowly is my rank.			
I’ve silver locks and aching limbs
and soon I’ll walk the plank.

One thing I’ve learned as days go by
a‘sailin’ life’s rough seas:
It doesn’t work to push against
what comes upon the breeze.

For when I tried to turn the tide,
instead the tide turned me;
the Sea of Life dictates for us
in ways we can’t foresee.

‘T’is true that we are powerless
to stop waves high and low,
but we can choose to welcome both
the pleasure and the woe.

And so this ship does carry me
through seas both sweet and tart.
When I embrace my life, I live
with full, contented heart.