It Is What It Is

The phrase hangs in the air, a shrug disguised as truth, A verbal period, ending further proof. "It is what it is," we say when reasons fail, When logic falters and the winds prevail. Is it acceptance quiet and serene? Or resignation, a defeated scene? A boundary drawn beyond which we won't strive, A comfortable cage where possibilities die? The river flows unburdened by our pleas, The mountain stands unmoved by human unease. The past is etched, a story we can't mend, And so we sigh, "Well, this is how things end." But is it truly so? This fixed and solid state? Or just a moment where we abdicate Our power to reshape, to question and to mold, To challenge the "is" and stories yet untold? The seed insists despite the barren ground, The artist strives where silence does surround. The human heart, a stubborn beating drum, Often rebels against what has become. Perhaps it's wisdom recognizing the real, The unchangeable, the wounds that never heal. A letting go of battles fought in vain, A finding peace within the falling rain. Yet, in that stillness, does a danger lie? To passively accept beneath a passive sky? To let the "is" define our every bound, And never seek the "could be" all around? So when the phrase escapes, a seemingly simple sound, Let's pause a moment on that hallowed ground. Is it acceptance hard-won and sincere? Or just a comfort for the doubt and fear That whispers we are powerless to sway The stubborn current of another day? For even in the "is," a future starts to bloom, And what it will become still waits beyond the room. ©bfa042325