Imagining Me at Age Seventy Two...|
Seventy two! Only twenty five years away!
Tick, tick, tick,
the minutes crawl there faster than you think.
What will I have accomplished then?
Shall I have written books?
Will poem upon poem stack like tiny bricks to the heavens?
Will my art flower in every style and form?
I am looking forward to see.
But not TOO forward.
I don't want to rush this time.
I'll hold each moment and try not to waste it.
There seems in me two people,
one that watches everything unfolding,
and the one doing the unfolding.
Do they change places at times?
Twenty five years ago,
where was I?
I was twenty two, and just mastering a job.
I was proud to learn the alteration methods,
getting into a daily flow.
Did I know I was as young as I was?
Could I imagine myself then at forty seven?
I can't recall that I ever did.
Will I at seventy two know myself to be old,
or will the crisp bounce of youth still
manifest from time to time, besting the aches of age?
I like to see myself that way.
I like to see myself finding more and more ways to
The Will pointed to Xeper will be sure to find it.
That much I can be sure of.
But the details!
This is the hazy thing.
The only way to work on the future
seems to be by working on the present --
This present, in which I breathe and
occupy space, in which my tummy
digests its good meal,
and I am sheltered from the heat.