I’ll live this hour

Until ten I lived my now
sleeping under large stones among crabs and anemones
searching for unbroken sand dollars and sometimes
drifting between sky and silvery waters on the lake of rocks
just he and I, needing few words
then death brushed my cheek
as it took him
and I began to grow up

From ten to twenty I lived for later
staying up all night until tomorrow came
wondering who would love me so I could love myself
rushing fast forward into my future
I barely felt more
than a fleeting moment
of his memory
as I grew up too soon

From twenty to thirty I lived looking back
waking from nightmares of possession
exhuming and rearranging bones of past mistakes
stirring ashes of every old grievance
for a few shining minutes
he returned to sit beside me
held my hand
as I grew old before my time

After thirty I resolved to create a new now
conceiving life afresh from ashes and bones
savoring late afternoon scent of lilacs, honeysuckle, cut grass
hovering between past perfect and future participle
and he is watching me
fulfill our shared destiny
of joy in word and deed
living in this hour.



The prompt at Writers Island this week was "time travel". I've never had a desire to travel anywhere (anywhen?) in time, but I used to live less in the present than I do now, and reflecting on that became my initial impetus for a poem. As my ideas about being in the moment coalesced, my mind went to the title of one of my grandfather's novels, "I'll Live This Hour"—which made perfect sense, because I had already been writing the poem about us.