Carol A. Hand
Who am I – a tiny speck on a revolving globe
In a universe that, like me, appears to be
more empty space than substance?
Why am I here – a physical body held on the surface
by a force no one can adequately explain?
There are times when I feel connected, one
with the wonder and beauty surrounding me
And other times I’m absolutely alone
when inexplicable brutality and suffering
painfully extinguish meaning and hope
For moments in each rotation of this globe
there’s an escape to blessed oblivion
Yet I have always awakened, whatever that means,
to the repeating questions that remain
Who am I?
Where am I?
What is the purpose of life?
Is there something I am meant to learn, to do, to be?