Who can tell,
the children with their
bikes and balls
and laughter there,
I thought were mine.

Journeys never taken,
books, maybe,
to write,
and sights
unseen.
People yet to meet
and some I wish
unmet.

Who can say,
whether I have gone
the way
I should, no question
left unchecked.
Am I whole,
or at my dying
will I wonder why
I went this way,
not the other.
Who could know.

It wouldn’t
happen any
other way -
my days
have blossomed
as they must,
left up to trust,
without regret,
from birth
to dust.

Mary Ellen Seidel
5/26/2002