Each generation faces its own 
struggle and strife.
We demand answers to our questions.
We search for firm footing.
The answers are not so clearcut
bold and obvious – though sometimes they are.
Simple solutions seem almost laughable.
The riddle rattles around in our head.

It tumbles and rolls quiet 
like a desert weed across a vast landscape
or loud
like coins in a canister 
we shake up and down 
or a magic ball that should solve all!
Conclusive, personal it is not.

And what of the scholar who writes and reads
scouring pages upon pages
fixed wood in their hands.
The letters fall off the page.
Can I pluck them off one by one
and make sense of the chatter?

The noise that rattles.
It morphs from chatter to laughter,
sob and sigh.
A tooth-saw grin etched into wood.
A permanent mark of what I once understood.