I am not one who looks back, longing
for what was, or what might have been—
that way of seeing sets me up
for self-criticism,
which dims my spirit
rather than lifting it.

Nor am I inclined
to prop myself up with false images,
finding them equally damaging
to the essence of who I am,
and what I have to express
in this short span of a life.

Still, it feels natural
from time to time
to cast back in memory,
to long for a simpler era—
which, for me, would be
the mid-twentieth century.

Then I shake myself awake.
How could the 1950s or ’60s
have been simple?

I won’t insult your intelligence
by rehearsing the broader strokes
of that time.
It’s enough to say this:

In retrospect, it’s easy
to long for what we label innocence—
a time before life felt weighted
with adult responsibility,
before decades of accumulated knowing,
before facts and figures
revealed the depth of our impact
on the Earth,
on one another,
on other species.

And I find myself wondering:
was there ever a moment
when ignorance
was truly bliss?

Hibiscus - bj 2018