“You aren’t just the age you are, you are all the ages you have ever been.” ~ Kenneth Koch
morning, pebbles making small ripples like fish
in afternoon sun, this was my beach
now empty but for summer moon and me
two silver waning slivers silent as water
a bridge that no one is crossing
He has a map of scars that
leads to no treasure or even destinations.
All paths lead back to the source,
like every river that escapes from where
it all began – where the bleeding started.
This time of predictions and resolutions.
Year’s end reflection back, and looking forward.
That river of time, downstream as distant
and unclear as upstream, and before me
passing before I knew it was here.
Watching the workmen moving the river today,
I thought about when my young sons
and I once diverted the local creek.
Lifting rocks, digging mud, making stick dams –
we changed its course. Until it rained.
Porcelain turban, layered wedding cake, snail shell.
Abandoned riverside by a racoon whose tracks
in the silt look like baby’s hands
that held the wood-grained case this morning –
a smooth white delicacy, a freshwater breakfast.