In an obscured room, trying and failing
to write. Reworking, rewriting, retrying.
The moment settles on me.
A weekday morning, alone in the house.
Wind blows through the eaves, traffic rumbles
and heaves. A golden blade of sunlight pierces
the armour of curtain, striking the wall,
sparking thoughts. It is late winter cool.
In these autumn years, the taste of spring
in the air, seasoned, salt and pepper hair,
I wonder what is there now, what is left
for me to do from this moment on?
Past working, past fathering, past building
a future, I sit and do what I wanted to
when the past was a present of youth. The
years gone before now number more than the
years yet to come, but I am not done.
I’ll carry on, though the writing is wrong,
and to right it would take me too long.
There is more to life.
There are birds to hear, seas to swim,
there is love to give, and to receive. There are
the miracle moments yet to come: spring;
baby cries; the kiss of a child; laughter
of friends, given freely; moonlit nights;
the scent of jasmine; more than this, more
than can be said in one lifetime.
I lean back, and as if to say yes, I am blessed
with a kiss from the sun on my face.