Waking Late

 

Waking late, rubbing my eyes, washed up on the shore of old age: a tree trunk silvered, a place to sit, coconut palms down the beach.

My past is over the horizon—an archipelago in time, each island a family, friends, challenges met more or less. My poems and stories are overboard and gone by. Time washes away all narrative. Only love endures, passed from one to another.

It is a fine morning with a promise of shade. As my old friend Sylvester wrote (in another context), It will have to do.*

*Entering the Walking Stick Business, Sylvester Pollet

 

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