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We laugh back then, 
frequently 
joyfully 
without pretense, 
bells tinkling in chorus, 
children enraptured 
by this new thing 
life. 
 
We age 
as life reveals itself, 
and assume its trials 
like an ancient rowboat 
takes on water 
always in danger of sinking, 
and our laugh 
becomes the hollow snort 
of the cynic, 
reverberating up 
from the well 
of a troubled soul. 
 
We grow old 
as that rowboat 
tosses and turns 
but weathers the storm, 
and life’s foibles 
now seem small 
as we gaze 
into the sunken face 
of death, 
and we laugh.

We Laugh