At fourteen, I thought less about the future
and, unaware of Buddhism, lived in the moment.
Even a day was usually unplanned, spontaneous,
open to what the universe had planned for me.
If life is like a sonnet, the turn occurred when
the future became my focus and the present
rushed by out of control, and the past
became nostalgia, a read book fondly remembered.
At fourteen, I believed, without proof, in eternity.
The days unfolded unbidden and I was content
in thinking at some point I would be able to see
That fourteen-year-old’s future is my present,
slipping away from what I wanted it to be,
and even partially my past, now already spent.
This year was the summer that wasn’t.
Circumstances made the months pass us unnoticed
It was a Southern hemisphere season here.
A winter landscape when summer was due.
Our world’s axis tilted from the sun.
Ghosts ask “Does it trouble you that
you haven’t done more with this marvelous
life God gave you?” “No,” I reply.
“And it doesn’t trouble me about all
the sadness and loss God gave me.”
That first leaf to abandon the summer –
at first I thought it was sad,
giving up early because of a few
cool days. But tonight, it feels brave.
Letting it end before it must end.
I am waxing, not waning, though really
a waxing and waning crescent Moon look
much the same and in this phase
my wife only knows I am intermediate –
less than before or perhaps becoming more.