I only have time for a note or two.
Hum. . .
There it is.
Hum. . .
Another.
All there is.
Life pulls me on.
Time is scarce,
no bigger than eternity,
so I must be going.
Nothing to waste.
A poem measured by five minutes.
For breathing, another two.
And for love,
oh, if I could only hold that note,
six minutes,
maybe seven,
and that’s all there is.
Life flying in me,
speeding out ahead.
A pause for coffee,
for looking, looking at girls,
all the time left in my pockets for children,
who above all else are timeless.
So my life is measured.
So death must be patient.
Seasons come and leave.
Lilacs in spring.
The deep smell of lilacs.
Around my cheeks,
in my eyes
before they go.
And autumn,
I’ll stand frozen,
like a statue,
watching a golden gale
of leaves come down.
And winter,
the first snow,
my heart bursting.
Nothing more beautiful
than snowflakes falling.
And spring,
life opening,
and in some sad way closing.
So there it is.
To say,
how I lived?
Quickly,
slowly,
carefully,
frugally,
frozen,
sleeping when I can,
and the best of all of it,
as much as I can hold,
until the end.
When a cliff looking into glory
invites me over,
into shoals,
where the sea comes with its hands,
to take me home.