on the transom of frosted glass,
late afternoon, illuminating the room,
the transient sun reminding us
it hasn’t forgotten that spring
will again return like so many others,
too many to count.
I count the days where winter’s sentence
will give way to longer days
and soon we will find the time
to complain about other things.
That is our nature, always looking ahead,
anticipating the next move
like a game of chess where the battle
of nights and days are played out,
an old scenario.
To wait like the cat for first light,
to curl up like that in the sun,
to absorb the warmth,
to be fully in present tense,
not worrying about the next move,
for the game is constantly being played out
over and over for the illusion of our benefit.
That urge to impose order is divine,
a random universe is our lot.
Does the cat on the windowsill
worry about such things?
I endeavor to be more present,
not to fall into the veil of the future,
because it is always running
out ahead of us like an escaped horse
fleeing the barn, not wanting to get caught
up in plans that we have no control over.
1/10/24 Write On! with Susie Terence
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