This life is broad, broad

This life is broad,
broad so far across it can’t be seen
from either horizon.

Its sun-up often concealed,
seen only in glimpse of cloud color
hinted at in daydream
in dream-memory
of familiar unfamiliarities
of place, of voice,
of strange touch.


The day is long & varied,
varied seasons come & go
leaving their lonesome marks,
images in hot & cold
on our landscapes, our bodies,
our inner-histories.

What is season but motif:
recurring states of be & used to be?
What do we fear but the end of it—
of some of it—one of it,
the loss of a color or dream-place
or hope by hope
bygone?


We build,
we build plan on plan
regret on regret
(forget, forget)
plan, plod on,
on to the next setting
the next niche to knock around
be knocked around by
plan plod plead pray
(make me better
be best me
for their sakes)
but fear forgets.

When it finally sets we won’t be there to see.
We can hope and hate but none will help the last sinking slow;
when we go, we go, and are gone as far as we know.
As far as we can see is sky,
sky & space & beyond everything,
nothing to fear.