to know well the moments, but nothing of time – a poem

THE POET BY DAY

the mindful peace of the cypress beckons,
she bows in the wind but doesn’t fracture,
she knows well the moments, but nothing of time
her poetry is written in presence, not words

in this business of life, of death and of poetry
yesterday is, i think, best forgotten ~
just a figment, after all, an old locked-room mystery,
stored among a million neurons, a trillion constellations,
sound proof, but for the occasional cerebral accident
with its quick crack of a gunshot fading into a yellow eye,
evaluating with a understandable skepticism

life, as it turns out, is a matter of imagination,
or folly, nurturing the seesaw of grief and joy,
the contrapuntal pulls of yin and yang

we can reframe, but we can’t rewrite
there are no encores

this business of life, of death and of poetry is what it is
and the past is not a salve nor the future a…

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