A Simple Life

By Blacksburg

A thought left to run its own path,

casting shadows upon house eaves

It’s a gift to be simple, a gift to be free

If you had to define it, could you?

Is it a feeling? an instinct? Or is it

the simple pleasure of morning coffee?

I sit on my porch and watch sunlight

dappled through the last of the autumn leaves

A reminder of you, the last thing you ever said to me

“Does the simplicity define you?”

But alas, when life is good for you and me—

falling down to its own destination—does it matter?

What a simple life is?