At day’s end, nearing sunset,
stretched out beside a shimmering pool
of still and silver water,
I’m in a mellow mood,
listening to music,
thinking about drink and food
as I contemplate the onset
of decrepitude.
Try as we may to hold
the house of cards together
and keep our little boat afloat,
the intricate facade erodes,
crumbles into rubble
or — if you wish — pops like a bubble
squished against the wall
of the inexorable.
What else is one to do
but stall for time and keep in mind
what’s in front and what’s behind,
what’s creeping up the avenue
in and out of shadows,
lurking in and out of view,
overtaking old and new.
The sell-by date elapses,
and the house of cards collapses.
The unthinkable unfolds.
Disturbed by some external woe,
the restless sleeper wakes,
and moonlight bright illuminates
what heretofore has lain in wait.
While we were busy celebrating,
the glacier was accelerating.
We feel the next disaster
inching towards us faster
as we scoot through the sliding door
that opens the escape route
to a promised ever after:
“Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’”
