Winter’s early evening breeze
feels and smells the same now,
as when sixteen,
except less promising
because more consoling,
contenting rather than regenerating contentious breath
of future hopes and dreams,
knowing we conspire somehow,
Earth and I,
because I feel richer to love this way,
than to breathe evening’s winter still, alone.
I am less sure this was not my last daylight
in this operatic, yet ridiculously distracted,
lifetime landscape of sensory memory.
When I was sixteen,
my understory was more of a musical-comedy landscape
that would remain forever Peter Pan young, virginal,
well…hopefully not that.
Such confidence of seeing yet another
and another, apparently endless,
introducing blue hemisphere,
framed by green Earth’s polycultural grasses
and monocultural asses,
which, at sixteen,
I found more amusing
than patience perdures into sixtyfour.
Winter’s now later evening silence
remembering sixteen and sixtyfour
over vodka-laced pomegranate.