Time on My Hands 

I'm not at all sure just when time 
began arriving in those packets
of all different weights and size. 

There was no mistaking the address. 
These were MYmoments 
cluttering my doorstep, 
the heavy hours outweighing all the rest. 

The joyful times floated in through windows
and, I must admit 
Those were the ones I opened first. 
Well, who wouldn't? 

You could tell them even sealed. 

If, instead of comparing marriages,
Tolstoy had made comparisons of times, 
I wonder if he would have found 
that all the joyful moments seem alike, 
and all the times of burden are a story of their own. 

I never took the time to understand, 
that I could use each packet as I wished. 
Judging by covers, I ignored the fact 
that unseen inside they were mutable 
A hard time then could transform into a gift, 
a burden growing lighter over time, 
being time itself. 

I thought it had to be marked "Best of times" 
to risk the opening up, however small --
like bonbons, you could choose the ones in foil and
read the promise guaranteed inside. 

But in the attic far beyond my sight 
the ones in boxes now marked "bittersweet" 
grew the most lush and rich like loamy soil 
and sent me silent missives in my dreams 
til I began to see each time about-to-come 
in parcels of all character and size 
as something else than it was classified. 

Who knows which are the best of times, at first? 
And which the heaviest moments, however packed? 

Not me. I hardly know what earns the bow. 
With time on my hands 
and time out of mind 
My attic and my porch both overflow. 
 
 

The View From Here 

Wherever you stand
It's not vantage point enough 
To know what to demand. 

Whatever you demand, 
there's not wisdom enough 
To live with that decision. 

Whatever you decide, 
There's not grace enough 
To forgive yourself your error. 

Whatever your error, 
There's not magic enough 
To do it all over again. 

And if you could do it all over again, 
Wherever you stand, there's not vantage point enough 
To know what to demand. 

So let it be 
And love it as it is.
That is wisdom, grace, magic and vantage point enough. 
 
 

Words Fail Me...... 

...flying out of my mouth like moths 
from a hole-drenched purse 
not a shiny coin left rattling around 
worth its weight in meaning. 

Words fail me 
strung without a wisp of grace, 
frozen along a clothesline, 
each word-slapped article 
nabbed at corners and otherwise unhinged 

Words fail me 
birds scattered by a 
speeding car 
shrieking tires drowning out 
any chance of song 
no warbles in a chorus on the wing
and no way to call them back
when so dispersed. 

Yet if by chance it might be true, 
that the only way beyond is through... 
I speak the words and listen deep 
for echoes shaped beyond their hollow rattle. 
 
 

Getting Along Swimmingly 

She swam toward her longings 
Like a woman in danger 
of drowning 
if she could not reach them 
in time 

Driving them away with every stroke meant to claim her prize 
 

Every splash reverberating, 
propelling beyond her grasp 
The object of her desires.
 

Desperately aching, she reached toward these, 
the only islands she could see 
In an ocean of possibilities