spring in first person

I don't know how
I made it this far into
a life that looks exactly
right

three autumns ago, I sat
on unfinished wooden steps, looking
south, sun and wind
against my face
waiting
for time to keep
its promises

but I did not
keep mine, and it is
insanity
that takes me to that
dark room filled with
rot and wisdom, waiting
still
for someone else
to complete me

I am at peace,
sometimes, though it
comes upon me without
warning, always with bird
song and breeze and spring
morning sun on my face
warming toes finally freed
from boots, slippers, and socks

the horizon, the view from
my patch of planet is
always changing
I cannot fight this

my anger sustains me
separates me from the
buddha-christ acceptance
no longer residing in
my soul

my anger,
like the force of
an ocean of magma
pushing through
layers of rock, the will
of the sea floor
cast aside—earth quivers
the whole world tilts
knocked off course
not by an island-sized
meteorite

but from within

then I know I am
made of earth with iron
and fire at the core
my power is pure
destruction

waiting