Seventy-two years and one day
Why does time feel this way
Long then short now
All one wonders is how?
In the day when all was long
And daylight for hours
The racing bikes the silly songs
There was no sense of death and down.
Now the light grows short and golden
Turn westward and consider
How all the new things turn olden
Slow the march, steady on feet are.
Lucky you to be here at all
So many dangers might have already ended
The trodden path became the call
Though you often despaired as it ascended.
Each day’s trouble is enough for dealing
Looking too far ahead never much needed
There is no such thing as management a, b, c
For orbits are settled, tilted axis seeded.
Overhead the sky blushes under the Artist
The sable-haired brush finely drawing
All these lines whether straight or swirl
Delight of heart however they are dawning.
Trying a poem today. The image of the Creator as the Artist strikes me as particularly poignant, for actually seeing what the Artist is creating, may not be as simple as you may believe. So much more happens within the chemistry of light and moisture, the angle of sun rays, the shadows of trees, the flight of wings overhead, the cry of a gull. It could be as if you yourself were being painted into the larger canvas even as you walk along, looking or not looking. There it is. All before you. And you yourself sketched into the shape of all things, bound into the movement of the grouse breathing in the thicket at the edge of the field now nothing but stubble at the end of corn season. The trucks that caught the grain have driven away. One day in spring a farmer will drive his tractor onto the ground and begin again to clear away what remains. Hope fulfilled in seed falling that may in time emerge green and living. The shadows will slowly give way to light flooding all the corners of the canvas where you may once more find yourself breathing with the grouse or spotting the first red-winged black bird balancing on tremulous blades of bunched brush, its song suddenly sounding in the sweep of sky and gusty winds and your arms swinging in rhythm as you walk along the edge of whatever the Artist has begun to re-create until you find yourself right in the midst of brush and color all one created thing together on a plane with no up or down or sideways, merely being.
Already Tuesday 