There was a time
when I could read a poem I'd written
and be enamored with it every time.
I suppose I was trying to convince myself
that I could actually write.
Now, a poem is dead to me
as soon as the ink dries.
Maybe it's the constant ebbing of time
or some kind of real maturity, at last,
but the only poem
that means anything to me now
is the one I'm currently working on.
I suppose that's how it should be.
Today is all that matters, as they say.
Reading and re-reading old poems
is just another way to live in the past
and lose the present.
Today, right now,
there are new friends to make
new places to see
new experiences to be had
and new poems
waiting to be written.
Poems that are alive,
poems that breathe,
that laugh and cry.
There will be time enough to reflect
when I'm old, with no energy left for adventures,
but while there's youth left to spend,
the only path I'm interested in
is the one that goes forward.
Always, forward.
The big, messy world
with all it's madness and beauty
is calling me again, loudly.
I'll be right back
and I'll tell you all about it.
Adding your comment:
How have you been??? Great, I hope.
Wanda
