September/October 2023

You are reading this poem now. I wrote it “now,” but by the time you’re reading it, I will have written the poem in the past. Oh, the functions of time! Past, now, soon . . . Time commands every word. What is now? It is gone, but will come again, right now.

Distracting myself, busy all day, cannot accept another day lost to time. Time— the old enemy, yet friend, it makes me a day older yet wiser. Another day of my life is gone. Past. But I know that I did something that day; I did not sit around, waiting waiting waiting for it to pass, and waiting waiting waiting for the next day to come. I read wrote learned asked questions and went outside to the park in that day. So maybe it is worth being another day older, another second older— not that it’s my choice anyway. I’ll enjoy it, I’ll love it, and I will not look back.