I’ve reached the age where
life becomes conditional,
largely ephemeral,
most things provisionary,
all things temporary.
the big things,
the small stuff,
it’s a time when I’ve
earned, owned, had enough.
Now, everything’s contingent on
the time remaining,
a simple fact of life,
each day self-sustaining,
sometimes in joy,
others with strife.
No matter the years,
the many, the few,
it’s simply the truth,
we’re all just passing through,
briefly posed between
two eternities,
and that, my friends,
is the year’s only certainty.
If there’s a year ahead,
what to do?
Read another book?
See another movie?
Walk another beach?
Or, boldly experiment
with something new.
Maybe I’ll just think about it.
For a while.
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