I have now lived nearly seven years alone
except for two covid years my youngest
son lived with me in that milk and honey
time of near solitude this home on this hill
provided. A safe haven of fishing and hunting
seasons, trips to town buying what was needed,
no shopping. I’ve had time to consider this
choice of place that seemed provided by signs
and wonders, of time putting circumstances
in place, of me deciding. A cringe of second-guessing
has arisen. I don’t know why but what I know
is I can’t deny the shadow cast by it. Not great
but enough for me to recognize.
I’ve never trusted second-guessing, that knowing
after the fact what could not be known before
some now becomes some then. The restlessness
of age has entered me. That longing for more
knowing there’s only less to take in. That sense
of not wanting to miss what’s given. I don’t want
my death poem to be, I wished for a fuller/ life lived.
These years of near solitude have taught me
a thing or two. Forgive my doubts; I bow to where I am.
-Byron Hoot
No comments:
Post a Comment