newer things have littler appeal.
Certainly I yearn to see where my
children will fly and what my life will
look like in the shadow of their wings.
But it is the personal particulars of my past
that seem to boldly buoy hope –
Harrison’s poems I’ve read umpteen times,
the fading photograph of our wedding day,
violins bleeding Ashokan Farewell,
the comforting clack-rattle of trains.
I find myself circling round these again and again,
moving from one to the next like rosary
beads worn smooth by wind and days
narrowing to that stillest point I pray
is yet years and years away.