Worked hard outside all day, then sat
with a cup of tea that she
brought with a madeleine cookie to remember
things past and talk of this present
and watch the sunset on her hair.
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.
Water – shallow and muddy – like the present
moment. Then clear and deeper – the past,
but not so long ago. Further back,
clear and so deep, clear no longer
applies. Thick glass. Opaque memory. Droplet moments.
Image Credit: Photo by Skitterphoto. Public Domain via Pixabay