Is my pond a puddle
bound to dwindle
as morning’s glory fades
into evening’s shade?
The songs not sung
remain instead
where they’ve dwelt
inside my head?
A box of negatives
on a closet shelf
or in the cloud with all
the other billion trillions?
Does it matter if it’s matter
or just bits and bytes,
paper or pixels;
both will linger past my dust.
When a red-winged black bird
sings on cold mornings
his song turns into vapor,
as fleeting as the smoke rings
the pool shark blows
before he sinks the eight ball
in the corner pocket
and collects his wager.
Yes, I digress. So this:
I watched a sunrise
from the summit
of Haleakala ten days ago.
A once in a lifetime moment.
Yes. Except they all are;
the ecstasies and regrets,
kisses and stubbed toes,
bird songs and old movies
seen half a dozen times,
symphonies and sunsets,
shared beds and laughter.
Thanks be to nature,
God, and the flow of time.
For this and this
and this.
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