"There's so much more left to do.
Well, I'm not young, but I'm not through."
The song in my heart is
the scuff and sway of my shoes
against the nubs of acorns
in the margins of the sidewalk
and I'm thinking to the time
of my fingertips beating the corners of
diamonds in a chain linked fence
and the rust coming loose has me feeling
my age and its grit reminds me of
the lint lining my pockets,
but the wind is kicking in off the Atlantic
and rushing the door of
my jacket and whipping my skin
free of last nights slag in sparking strokes
and the sun is still low and having
a hard time seeing its potential
and its rays are missing the mark,
but if it could only see it
from where I'm standing,
and my feet have taken me
in their singing absent way
to the black bars lining
the erosion proofed cement bank
of a river, but what is holding my gaze
is not the dappling of a sunrise
on water green enough to pluck in
fistfuls of foul leaves and brown bark,
but the vacancy of the concrete field
I crossed to get here and
the weeds growing hip high
and in that distance stands
no one,
but I could have swore
I heard you call my name.
I could have swore,
but you had your reasons
and I can still feel unrest
touching the corners of my eyes
and the sun is whispering to me
behind broken cloud work
that I'm not the only one
with so much more left to do
and its palm stroke against my cheek
is warm and resists the fall
of my chin to my chest at rivers edge
and as it muscles back the night
I know that today is not a new beginning,
only another opportunity
to make some moves
farther away from where
lofty goals exploded across the deep blue sky
and fell like dead satellites in the night.
