We mark our march through time,
with the return now and again
to those same places
Where we look, again,
within, and without
peering to see what is different,
what is the same.
We were here a year ago
my mother newly gone;
chronicling sunsets and the
endless sssslissssh of waves and wind;
that same picture of the sun
setting through the wine glass on
the white white table.
Now I find myself that much further
on my march toward nothingness;
middle-age showing around my middle;
in gray hairs and papery skin
on the backs of my hands;
and my neck,
oh, my neck.
But what does it matter, really?
I’m nearly 50, after all,
as you are wont to remind me.
What possible jealousies or
regrets about what I did or didn’t know
can matter anymore?
We’ll shuffle off, then, from middle age unto,
what? Old age? Not yet,
not quite yet.
But I’ll hold your hand if you’ll hold mine.
And nights without you will feel
no less desolate than they
ever have. And what I would have done
at 20, if I could only have known, then,
what I know now, well, we’ll just keep that