© 2019 Barbara Grace Lake


Of all the questions asked by man
By far most frequently he asks
Of every life, why am I here?
Is there a reason for my being?
Or purpose I have yet to fill?

A mother young will seldom ask
Her children upmost in her mind
Its when the helpless ones are grown
And imprint of their youth declines
She wonders then, why am I here?

As fathers work to shelter them
To nourish both their bodies, minds
He grapples daily, then it’s gone
Retirement sees as waiting game
In which he asks why am I here?

What’s now the purpose of my life
He sees his children donning garb
He daily wore in working life
As they succumb to older years
They, too, then ask why am I here?

Our years begin creating life
In time, sustaining, keeping safe
Our children then to carry on
As life belongs to them we ask
Have I a purpose yet to fill

The answer sounds, resounds again
I gave to you a part of me
When born your value infinite
Your purpose is continued growth
For giving others wisdom, love