It doesn’t matter
what you used to say;
I don’t care that much
about the past.

Instead let’s speak
of now; not even
future times, just talk
about now. How about

this weather; how about
this wind and the threat
of rain? I know that’s
a problem of tomorrow,

but I suppose I can look
that far ahead. I am
allowed that much
time from then to address

now. I promise
it won’t become a habit.
I don’t have enough time left
to plant a habit, or tend one.

So then, now: there are
indeed some few birds outside
this room, talking together
in quiet voices. You can hear

distant cars; at this hour
it is likely only trucks, and
only a few of those. Light
wind. A touch of rain, maybe,

on the windowpanes. It feels
like I ought to get up and
face the imminent, shining day —
but isn’t it lovely staying

in bed, lying on my back
very, very still? I think
I laid down this way long ago
when I went to bed;

I think I could get used to this
in time, a year, maybe two,
maybe five years from now.
It doesn’t seem so far off.

I think I may have to do that.
Until then, let’s speak of
the current weather, the voices
of birds. Let’s talk of the moment,

this moment, this one brief
scissor-snip of time and
its contents, its sorrow and joy.
Talk to me; the last time, maybe,

you will have to say a word
or even make a sound for me
to hear. Probably not. But
we ought to live that way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T