July 15th,  2015,
6:30 AM, 55 degrees:
the summer that doesn't
want to happen.

Once every seven years
we shed our skins
like inevitable serpents.

I am in my ninth seven.

I know the time has come
to make a new life,
not so easy at sixty-three.

Although I practice
avoiding desire and craving,
I do so want this.

To be born again,
at least this once more,
into a fresh existence.

To plunge my clean hands
into pellucid water
and be made pure.

To walk with a new woman
through another rendition
of the fabulous Garden.

To be content with what is
and if the right birds sing
maybe even occasionally be happy.

I know that my story,
like every other story,
can only end in death.

I only want this last chance,
which is what we all want,
before the final curtain falls.

I am in my ninth seven
and I shall see what I shall see:
what remains possible for me.

  ~mce