Around Forty-Five

June poetry? Here's one from The Granary sharing.

The future at around forty-five

is the past times one or two or fairly probably

much more than that-

only with dimmer lights, hazy edges on the those mountains far away

and a certain shimmer of words on the page;

none of it is often an advantage, though.

As the heart grows fonder

of what it might not be able to find

or what it has altogether lost

in the composted, smelly past,

the feeling doesn’t often come to grief-

though truth is,

if honesty were more highly valued on this plane,

ever on the verge of tears I would be

if not for the grace of this day and the present

fear and hope of tomorrow.

Once, I juiced an orange between a rock and my hands,

emptying that sweet red liquid in to my canteen

drop by precious drop,

and in that process, spilling more than what I intended on the dry earth.

When finished,

I sipped greedily the liquor of that tree

and laid in the sun of that desert garden, eyes closed,

mouth open, breathing the hot, dry air

in bitter-sweet droughts as I thought I’d better head home

soon.

In future days, as even summer lightning dims,

and the most familiar peaks blur,

a gratitude like honey will continue to stretch joints and core

toward bursting-

but that’s not all that I’ll feel.

As weeks speed by as did hours,

It’s good to mind both metaphorical and literal razor’s edge,

a residue of what was once a black and white,

those beliefs in Gods and Devils.

i have noticed a fissure deepening by the day,

a separation of  soul from body, tongue from voice,

fingertip from flesh, synapse from life’s spark,

And in that very natural process, both excusing and forgiving

each learned and forgotten advantage of Life.