And It's Nice, For the Moment, But We Can't Ever Go Back

Death and the future are one and the same,
Twin provinces of the undiscovered
Country from which no traveller returns.

We all are on our way to both of them.
We all will lose ourselves along the way,
Without ever arriving at either.

What does it matter, if we're on our way?
Perhaps even more alarming, we're here.
Insofar as we are, we're already

In the instant of awareness we sought
And thought we would never find and did not
Expect would be like this, and not that, not

Quite the future, stuck, and dead to the past,
Forever exiled outcasts from ourselves,
Marooned, infinitesimal moment

By moment. Here we are, watching an ant
On a picnic table near a glacier,
While an unknown bird chirps syrupy songs.