Year’s end always sends thoughts into the past.
Review and reflection. Celebrations and regrets. Conclusions.
But briefly. Then to a future near
and far but all unclear, unformed, undetermined.
Momentarily, no present. No now. No self.
I flow today like this two-hearted river.
My energies come from two different places
in my past that should have passed,
but they have pooled around me today.
I’m trying to empty them. Dissipation. Loss.
I no longer believe in the green
light on Daisy’s dock, or any place,
or the future moving away from me.
But I do believe we’re boats against
the current, borne back into the past.
“Gatsby” via www.flickr.com
A new year is drawn but shows
days recently erased still beneath. It’s repentance.
It has a long life. It bleeds
through the new work, day, life
and haunts the wet, freshly painted present.
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.