Passing Cloud
If time disturb the silence of the passing of a cloud,
I wonder if the cloud would speak,
And tell the time of day.
Or even if the time of day would matter to a cloud.
For clouds live only in a fit,
Transforming in their way.
So as I pass beneath the cloud,
While hiking to the peak,
I secretly defer to it,
To hear what it might say.
Fading into Yesterday
One does not wish to find,
in the passing of a day,
the fading of tomorrow
in a lasting yesterday.
For the memory endures,
but the knowledge of today
is a dim excuse for thinking,
for it’s merely holding on.
Yet I wonder in the self-recriminations
that each day besiege my soul,
whether I would behave better,
were I where he sits today.
Birth and Old Age (undated, likely ~1995)
No,
not like the old lady
at a hundred and three,
who stands on her porch,
and smiles...
through the gape in her teeth,
and cackles ...
as only old ladies,
at a hundred and three,
can cackle,
at a stranger passing by,
unsuspecting,
on the walk that fronts her house for the past eighty years,
and says,
with as much a glint
as the eye of an old lady,
at a hundred and three,
can manage to glint,
You know? Today I am a hundred and three,"
as much to herself,
as to the passerby,
as much of disbelief as belief,
as much to the wood paneling
of her walls for the past eighty years,
as to anything alive,
and falls off silent,
nothing much more to say ...
than that.
No,
not like her.
No,
when I am old,
and I shall stand on my porch,
and glint,
and smile,
and gape,
at a passerby,
unsuspecting of my life
or my intent,
I shall say,
"You know? Today I am a day old,
This is the day I am born!"
