Future Perfect
Flipping now between sounds and text,
I can’t wait to see what’s coming next.
I’m a poet now, became one after
I saw that a perfect word is worth more
than a lovely photo of a rising moon,
so I”ll keep on writing, at least for awhile,
not caring what might be coming soon.
At a certain age, it all becomes provisional,
big things, small stuff, everything
in truth, conditional,
on health and love and grief,
on the time remaining,
a simple fact of life and death,
hours left to act simply waning.
No sadness, though, nor regrets,
there’s still work to do, and enough time left.
Whatever’s coming, I’ll meet it then,
be happy, at peace, smiling broadly, often.
It’s often been work to turn life’s daily page,
as the decades brought me to this age,
but now my heart against all pain defends,
grateful for my poetic friends.
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