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As surely as the countdown begins |
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our time is not our own; |
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already there's the breath of the wind |
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which bleaches bare the bones |
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of the deadlines we set, of the jokes we don't get |
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and forgetfulness that furrows the brow... |
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no, I'll never find a better time |
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to be alive than now. |
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So I wake up, to remainder the dream |
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of personality and posture and face |
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for nothing can remain as it seems |
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in some perfect state of pure grace... |
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all we prize and protect only cause and effect |
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but I suspect the furrow may be guiding the plough |
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and I'll never find a better time |
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to be alive than now. |
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No better, no worse, much the same, |
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we wait on the why and the when; |
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no question but we'll go as we came |
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with no shift in the shape of the zen |
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and it is as it is and we take as we find |
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always next season's buds on the bough... |
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but I'll never find a better time, |
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hard though it is to allow. |
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I'll never find a better time |
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to be alive than now. |
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This is the life and we've only time |
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to be alive right now. |
