Fairy Dust

Will the children find
how shaky all things are
and the gods who are their parents,
all illusion?
What will I say then?

“All of it, my dears,  all of it
is nothing but fairy dust
created by a head
in search of its own dream.”

Where would I be then?
In the midst of this day
or at the end of it, charged with life
pulsating within me.
Tired to be sure
but marveling that in spite,
despite everything,
life is sweet in any dimension.

I am  as real as these fingers
on this keyboard,  as real as
the smile that crossed my lips
when the computer commanded
“please wait”.
Or as real as the work I see surrounding me
that I may never get to.
I do what I see is mine to do.

I am committed as clearly
as I more nearly see.
I write as I more nearly think.   I think.
And I hear what is mine to hear.
So am I real?

Only to arms around me.
Only to those in whose memory I live and
will continue to live.
And as alive as I am in my progeny
whether here or elsewhere.
As I walk, I am.   As I think, I am.
And as I love, I am.
This is how real I am.

And if what I participate in,
including this,
is illusion, so be it.
I would hope it would be a life giving illusion.
In the face of no hope,

I would be hope.