*
…And When We Leave
Time ticks down the remainder of my life.
Though no reverberation marks that forward existence
I feel its passage, none the less.
Where once my horizons were open
unfettered by human limitation,
I knew, but did not have true sense of it;
that one day, all too soon, my tomorrows
would no longer outweigh my yesterdays.
Even at that midway point,
like the carefree grasshopper’s gay existence
I played on, danced free, set no focus, charted no course.
While about me, time ticked on, my sense of self
distracted from the truth, as though Time itself
were the magician, and I the audience, unaware and
awestruck by a force so surprisingly adept at an ancient skill,
my sense distracted, far beyond the point of rescue.
All I can do for the lost hours,
for inspiring sunrises, and stunning sunsets,
gone beyond my grasp, is reflect…
I am lost in mirrors of reflection
lost in a puff of magician’s smoke
surprised by the season of life I am within
still wondering why the other seasons
went so fast, beyond my ability to hold onto.
Autumn, nearly over, Winter approaches –
festoons of colorful leaves hide the death they herald.
Winter’s colors have faded me to pale,
the once rosy blush of my cheeks has gone;
my heart, once full and light, is now empty
and so heavy with sadness as a final time
will visit, and bring to me unending night.
I have had my turn – sorry, but there is no other –
we get one shot, one chance, and yet every day,
we get another chance to make it count.
I used to ponder,
“What will people think when they remember me?”
But it’s a Vanity to toy with.
What I should be thinking;
what I reflect upon, now daily,
is if I made a difference.
…if for one, brief, white-light and glorious moment
I did or said something that made a lasting difference,
if even to just one solitary life.
If, in so doing, they looked forward –
to see the truth long before their Autumn ended,
and lived as though each day were their last.
I’ll never know, and another wish goes unfulfilled, its song unheard.
Do not, my friends, put off until tomorrow – for by the time
we see that our tomorrows are so very limited – it will be late,
much later than we would have wished for.
Be glad for the dance,
happy in the movement through life,
when all is said and done -
it is our own, solely our own,
and we take it away with us
when we leave.
Lin Cava
6 – May – 2013
More prose than poetry, I've posted how I feel in the best way I can. I have run to ruin, lost my words, my ability to express, and worse, need to write. I have no thought that I contain talent. I will write, and one day, it will all go away. Much as I shall, someday, meet my last breath.*