Youth was my sprightly joy,
all that I could and would be,
my kingdom on its way.
At forty-three, while cashiers
still require proof before
selling me their ten dollar wines,
I find myself in the
quickened interstices,
letting go of could and would.
Here is our companionable
morning coffee, later I'll pause
for a sight of the bridge at the
rim of the mountain-held bay.
I'll ride my bike alongside bobbing
coots and mirror-winged crows
edges flashing white with light.
The bulk of the day will be a service
to humility, absorbed in a crotchety
machinery of function. All this inner
music silenced to a hum.
Five o'clock will whistle me back to you.
I'll fly downhill into the setting sun
toward the shoreline. The light on the water
will be an orange silver shimmering,
a defiance of representation, an evocation
of the painters who've taken the best measure of time
and tried to keep it.
We'll have our wine and we'll toast the antioxidant properties.
We'll inhabit the evening as fully as moons
before our faces ever wane.
You'll push up against me on the sofa.
I'll feel your warmth here
in my kingdom come.
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