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The earth— a patchwork of browns and greens

I stare until it bleeds together.

Twenty-five years prior

I would make a game

Of dodging dead patches

My own version of checkers

Where the focus became the hops

And becoming king was an afterthought.

Fifteen years before

I'd visualize life in those patches.

A checkered board of strategic positions

Where no one color meant death or life.

Instead, everything depended on the decisions made

To protect your crown.

Five years ago

There were no games.

There were no colors; no metaphor.

Only death and death's cruelty.

For a time it consumed me. Ruled me.

Extinguishing whatever mandate sanctioned my reign.

Today

I see a quilt of jagged shapes and blended hues —

As in the world is still beautiful with dead patches.

As in my life is still meaningful with rough patches.

As in love is still bountiful with brown patches.

Thought and Feeling become my subjects; Memory, my crown.

I soak in summer sun as browns and greens separate;

Grateful the sun shines on both death and life