POSTLUDE

EVERY DAY BEGUILES When young I didn’t know about the years — that they speed by faster than expected. My agenda left some things neglected that later on I thought about with tears. Middle age did little to prepare me to deal well with time’s amazing speed. Passing calendars, I paid little heed to when they changed, though it was plain to see. Now I’m aware that I am fairly old and hardly recognize the world I knew when youth consumed me. I am nearly through yet not disheartened to see the years unfold. I have been around a little while and still I find that every day beguiles.   I STILL CHASE RHYMES I’ve watched the decades come and go. As I grow old there’s less I know. There was a time I was involved — took interest in and problem solved the things I thought that needed me. But now there’s much that I can see that I might possibly deplore but find it easy to ignore. I’m satisfied to sit and stare at things that once demanded care from me. My garden’s full of weeds and I pull not, though I see needs. I still may try to write a little but my prowess I’ll belittle. I can’t deny that I’ve declined but, I find, I still chase rhymes.   MEDITATION FOILED There was no wind and all the leaves were still. Tall grasses held no motion and all the birds were mute. I was embraced by solitude and found my meditation easy to maintain. I’d found an inner peace. But then a fly flew by and buzzed around my ear and vanished. My meditation ceased. Serenity dissolved and all the noble thoughts I had flew from my head — to join the fly perhaps.   POSTLUDE My postlude has commenced I must admit — no doubt about it. It need not be brief. I hope its proper length will be achieved. My postlude is played out in my quotidian dailyness. It will unfold with many things I can’t control. But I’ll have room for choosing.   THE LOST WORD I had a word and lost it — on the tip of my tongue and it dissolved. Or did I drop it somewhere I can’t find it. It must be there somewhere just beyond my reach. I get angry at this lostness and embarrassed, too when I’m speaking to someone. My discomfort is noticed and I’m told “Don’t worry about it” — or “It will come to you.” Sometimes the lost word gets found and sometimes it doesn’t. I wish I’d harvested more words when acquisition was easy. If I had a lot more maybe I’d miss the one lost, less. But I’ll never really know about that.   What I do know is that I mourn just a tad when I reach down into my word well and come up with something that does not quench my thirst. SOLUTIONS I was cold and able to find warmth — was too warm and able to find coolness — was hungry and able to find food — was hurt and was able to find healing. I became old and still am old — still looking for solutions.   RHYTHM In his latter years when he was in decline he read the New York Times while sitting at a table. When he wasn’t reading he stared out of the window taking in the waters of the Sound. There was a rhythm to his days broken by another rhythm: dialysis three times a week for several years. As he grew less able by his table the Times was less devoured. At last it came to pass that the front page was all the he could scan. And now his chair is empty — the Times lies on the table and waves still come upon the shore — their rhythm undiminished.