Now is thicker than before.
Reinforced by the comings
of wisdom, slow like a sluice
of ice through a downspout
at Springtime. The Good
to make amends for a rotten
brother, or other extant relation,
keen on immolating your peace
at six AM. You, at your table
for two, staring down jets
of percolating steam, the holy aroma
of morning beans wrapped tight
like a shawl. This, and all prior,
will putter on by—caterpillars on passing
leaves. Your regrets and celebrations
equally stirred by the resolute breeze
of time stopping
for no one.
It won’t hurt, to know
one has lived and will live harder still before dying.
To know that mistakes evolve
to escape our ever-sharpening eyes.
To know that we strengthen
out of necessity, increasingly
equipped for the lows and highs
of one hundred tulip revivals
in late April.
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