The age of the self disguised as an uncertain future

The cat seeks wild water,

    she doesn’t care     where 

or what     is found. 

For her,      everything 

   is in time present.

No matter what     my age 

   I am like a baby     on a runway.

I can’t walk, it seems 

        I am always

 learning to crawl,      then run. 

Then, fall     again. Again.

I scroll my name,

     a calligraphy of clouds 

across an uncertain 

    sky.         The journey 

is always running 

    up against     itself 

in a crowded elevator. 

        I am the agoraphobic 

in the marketplace 

and I steel myself 

    with florid words 

and no one notices 

    my breath     trembling 

like unseasonable leaves 

on a lone tree. The winter 

    is a demanding bitch dressed 

in fancy ribbons and bones. 

    Bless the living 

and the dying of the past 

and the future is a war 

that never ends.     The thing is, 

    the journey is always 

in front of you.     How 

    do we cope 

when the chains 

of change     attempts 

to escape the sordid

confines 

            of the past?

12/27/23 Write On! Nancy Woo