Hovering

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Although demonstrably imperfect on a daily, sometimes hourly basis, have hoped to generally think well of myself, just a guy, a good one, wanting to be.

Certainly don't feel worthy of the grace and good luck granted, so then where has it all come from? From the same source of all things known or unknown, real as hovering hummingbirds, mysterious as ghosts of souls.

Certainly don't feel able, qualified, or ready to claim any wisdom of inner working- have never felt so microscopic small, and the expanding cosmos more vastly incomprehensible.

You'd think the clouds would clear after sixty-eight years of cover, but I'm not getting any smarter. There are new fears to face down, new puzzles to overcome, maybe even more grace or guidance for the time remaining.

 

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