This
morning
she was young.
But by late afternoon,
as the the sun became shrouded in afternoon fog,
she had aged.
And soon afterwards,
when that same sun
lowered itself into the Pacific,
even her thoughts
felt old.
“One day you too
will see how this works,” she said.
“For now though,
you needn’t think about it
much.”
As if anyone
could make sense
of the ungraspables.
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How youthful color
turns pallid grey,
how a back,
once rippling with vigor,
becomes suddenly prostrate,
how energy,
however ineradicable,
sneaks away
to serve elsewhere.
While we can
we must both run.
We must run
into the long night
laughing and singing.
And then, for this night alone,
we must grasp for both
laughter and song.
What is good is what is before us.
