THE POET IN US
This poem came unexpectedly this early evening. It couldn't be ignored. I soon posted it on social media and three friends reacted in this way:
Friend K: Thank you for sharing this. I have found myself in unusually pensive states recently, and contemplating "this precious human life" and remembering that life is impermanent, like a water bubble.
IT IS TIME
When questions spewing from the mouth
have lost their value, their allure
and all their luster, then toss them in the box
labeled—irrelevant—as it is time.
Time to steel the self, and face the ending
drawing near. Don’t awaken self-pity,
tempt remorse or empty out all that ever
mattered...keep them in the box.
Keep all that ever lived
and everything birthed from love in spring.
Springtime enshrouds the living,
intoxicates the weary, even disguises
the shriveling leaves from view. Spring showers
camouflage tears and pain
from view. Even the self recognizes not—
how precious hours and minutes
have fooled the fragile flesh, how
time stole youth, blurred memory
and bandaged scars earned
traversing ugly and cruel hurdles
of a life hard-fought. A real life well-lived.
One hopes that it was for real; that all transgressions
were real, forgiven and worthy of lessons taught
and not merely a mirage cleverly concocted
from deceit of a desperate imagination.
There is no longer a need for questions,
nor is there time for useless thoughts,
improbable wishes or unhealed wounds.
There is, however, just enough room
to simply thank a universe which coddled,
tested and aged the body even the mind,
and spared the soul.
Photo ©James Sobredo
A favorite photo—A Peaceful Midnight in San Sebastían, Spain