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I don't know where you're going
so it frightens me to look at you,
but you've got the look of that new place
already on you and there's no going back,
just as there never was any going back
all along, but this time I think it's different.
There's an actual door there and it's open.
I see you at the edge, ready, and strangely
excited, and it doesn't matter now what I think,
it doesn't even matter what you think,
or what bills have been paid or what papers
lost or if your hair, in its white rage, is curled,
and I almost think you are smiling because
it suddenly seems so easy and such a solution,
one you wouldn't have chosen but now that you
notice it, staring you in the face like that,
it doesn't seem half bad and you won't complain
after a lifetime of circles, finally circling in.
So I make notes and pictures of now and here
to give to you, for you to see before you go,
but it is strange thinking of what things to add
to a life, making choices that either matter terribly
or not at all, as I sit here, farther away than I'd like
and closer to earth than I ever have been before.
go back
©2007 Susan R. Gilbert
www.plasticduck.net/susangilbert
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