I look in the mirror every morning,
scrub my teeth which feel so loose in my mouth
these days. I brush my hair and convince myself
I like its silver color and sheen.
don't want to be dismal or decrepit,
how can I hold back the years.
Even so, the issues are less and less
important as time passes.

Behind that tide comes the mystery,
rising once more then coming back to
soak up any energy lying about, as if there
is nothing else left to do. That day has
not yet come around, I can still distract
myself with gardening and, until recently
a walk Flynn, the dog.

Stories, like lives, never begin as we think
they do. Behind every story of the person,
who may or may not have lived it, there is
a history. From this history, I try to awaken.
It works for a while then I have to escape yet
again. So often I castigate myself for this
dwelling place that insists I 'write it down'.

After all, my life has been full wondrous
and worthwhile, something lingers it will not
be denied. The time of learning the skills
to make it happen has passed, only the task

I imagine a book I'm supposed to read
left open and upside down on the floor gagged
by the gray carpet. A red leather bookmark
with a threaded bead on the end flops over
the edge of the book near the back pages
...and then something happens...