Monday, February 25, 2013

Ego Flora

"There is no present moment, only present movement."

A man grows old and indolent
Or gardens crammed with squash and yams
Or bookshelves thick with spiderwebs
Or other things that men may grow
The day they cease to grow themselves.

The rhythm is relentless. Age
Consists of every thing that youth
Attempts to do in disregard
Of aging. Those surviving long
Enough to feel embarrassment

Apologize to everyone
For being present anymore
At all, or grumble no one cares
To learn the lesson of their years.
I'm hoping to throw out my books,

And unlike father, grandfather,
Or other males of my humble,
Anonymous line, I can't grow
A damn weed, much less a garden.
I can't fish, cook, paint by numbers,

Or spend decades painstakingly
Labeling the branches of trees
With my other irrelevant
Ancestral trivialities,
And I'm already indolent.

Who knows what I'll grow before
I give up trying to keep time
On the beat I set out for it
And can't manage to keep myself,
But I've grown awful fond of now.

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