Why can I only ask questions, never give answers?

Why can I only ask questions, never give answers?
Does the sun keep ducking behind a cloud, fearful to shine on me today?
Why do the leaves change in their brilliance and then crunch under my feet?
Why does the wind blow when I’m alone and my jacket not keep the cold away?
Is the green grass envious of my jaded philosophy?

Why is this the last page of my notebook?
Am I a September dandelion?
Why is the fire pit so full of rusty nails that–like my soul–are all that’s left after the flame.
Why do my new shoes hurt, when the grimy pair with a hole in the toe felt so good?
Is the crow black because of my sin?

Why does grandpa lie so lost, his will to live sucked away?
Does the phone always ring when I take a nap?
Why is the bench always taken?
Why does the spider scamper away?
Is the silver moon imparting courage lost to me?

Why do you go quietly into that good night?
Do you read this page and walk away unchanged?
Why are the days so packed with busy minutes and hurried hours?
Why do we exchange empty hellos with a hollow nod?
Is the sky gray because of our Monday apathy?

Why are Mom and Dad’s assurances a wet blanket to this cold little boy?
Why is there a forty foot stump outside my door?
Why does he make me smile when he doesn’t know my struggle?
Why is her hug like hot chicken & noodle soup to this frozen boy?
Is the earth blue because of our overwhelming humanity?

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