by Gideon Burton
If I had known how little time remained --
the thunderclap, the drench of summer rain,
the whine of dogs, the muddy gutters stained
with gurgling runoff; or the whistling train
that every midnight dopplers in and IN
and OUT and out, the umber incense made
by toasting toast, the staining of my chin
with cherry juice, the scraping razor blade
along her angled leg, the throats of old
acquaintances, the consonants that clack
or hiss, the steam of vowels hot or cold
the crickets strumming into Summer's black.
The children sprouting, wild with downy grace;
the evening stroking shadows on her face.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License. Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - The Russians Are Here
I wonder if I would value the now more if I knew how much more time were left. Or if I'd expect to value it in the future because it was already measured. Hm.
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