Allotment

You are dealt a hand of two, three, four, five, six, or seven— Random, unpredictable, unforgiving. You play them day and night,

Digging through your bag of tricks, both seen and unseen. With each card you place for bid, Your heart quickens, stumbles, skids.

As you win, lose, or draw, God reveal what you never foresaw. Family, friends, and sometimes foe Urge you onward—“Go… just go.”

For each, the path seems clear and near, While you grasp what you cannot know or hear. Uneasy, unwilling, you play along, Weak within, yet outwardly strong.

At every bend or at each crossing, You search for light while fear is tossing. Then, when the game ends—nothing more— You and your allotment walk out the door.

Composed while returning from the funeral services of my sister, Bibigul