Why do I worry?
The future frightens—
full of uncertainty.
Why is there so much uncertainty?
I am no clairvoyant or crystal gazer
clearing the dust, revealing an unknown future.
Why is the future unknown?
I’ve heard the past no longer exists,
has no substance other than what remains
in our dreams and longings.
Why do I harbor dreams and longings?
They lay lifeless and limp, a memory unfulfilled.
All those plans and certainties evaporate
into the liminal space of the ether.
Why do I linger in the ether?
It feels safe, but it is not.
I erased the past while tomorrow looms in the
crevices of fear—precarious
of the now I confront.
Yet—now—is the sweet surrender of life full of living.
. . .
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.