Indigo, ocean,
emerald valley,
the algae green
of a seasonal stream.
Burnt umber earth,
too long without
the rains that nearly always
sweep through this gulch.
Underfoot now,
powdery soil
laced with ironwood needles.
You know how quickly it goes.
One day,
you’re excitedly strapping on
your roller skates,
memorizing a book
to recite in third grade,
trying on your mother’s
poofy-sleeved blouse
to play Shakespeare
in sixth.
Before you know it,
you need somewhere to stay,
a way to remain there,
a car,
a way to get to work,
a way to get to the beach.
The warm wet sand
between your toes
has you unconcerned
with futures.
You land in the woods of Maine,
the opposite shore now,
trees ringing a lake
so clean
you drink the water
and don’t get sick.
Your hair,
long and thick and wavy,
has never felt so soft.
You raise kids
the best you can.
You see them
into adulthood.
You question
what is next,
having had your life
abruptly
handed back to you.
People come,
people go.
People love,
people deceive.
People die.
More people die.
And you remain,
no longer interested
in socializing
or parties,
soaking in the quiet,
wondering.
Every day,
wondering
at time
and place
and human absurdity.