Some live their lives as if each act
were prelude to the fact.
As if each step were nothing more
than interim, and yet
to think this way casts everyday
as one prolonged delay.
What’s to be done, and what is won
with little left to say?
I must believe in something sure
in walking through each door.
No accidents comprise the trek.
Each part is consequence.
We may not see to first degree
how anything will be.
What comes to pass and what must last
has much to do with me.