Old men ought to be explorers...
T. S. Eliot, “East Coker”, ln. 202.
from somewhere nearby
a nervous bell clangs
pushing my eyes
out of dusk into dawn
out of fog into something
resembling fog —
it feels like time
I’m older —
wisdom seems less important
than humility
returning to the same place
is not the same place
not in light
not in time
not in memory or frame of mind
or in those who have come and gone
not in the chewed words that have been
used and used again
depleted finally of their poetic flavors
the past (what little remains)
resides in pools
vaguely translucent dots on the landscape
some stirred by a seeker
for what might surface —
clarity or a clue or an answer
or simply balance —
others are left to evaporate
what remains ahead
is in the process of becoming —
the way of the present
always becoming
Wisdom is of no value until it becomes history. Humbling, isn't it.
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