I know it’s trite to ponder
is it real or a dream,
a well-worn writer’s device,
this question of whether or not

the loss of self so profound
that one has to wonder and
wander about, the stuff on which
it is founded and grounded

wisps abound,
images fleet, hinting,
leave me melancholy,

so many symbols
so real

I never agreed to
be a part of any

please let me live
in my favorite space
with my daily routine,
my mundane happiness,
these trivial concerns
of mine, my easily

allow me to be
simply small


to anyone
but a few

and most of all
grant the children,
the babies born today,
peace in their time

Chagall 2020