Depth is not a checklist but a question;
it bobs up to the surface
from the stirrings of beneath.
You can, after all, drown
in just an inch of water;
that same puddle may be deep
if you’re compelled to stay submerged.
Someone could have told me then
how it would end
that it would end too soon
and then what need to act it out
progress through, scene by scene?
We could have spared ourselves the pain,
the chore, of facing each old day again.
And yet I disagree
for everything must end
what more can knowledge bring
when every minute was itself
a minute end
the stirrings of another hour or day
What strength the cry
of ending? More treasures fall
to those who live the present,
its all-continuing beginnings.
each one of your “why?”s
recalls me to my closure of perception, where
each object contains its own answers.
I stopped, with time, in questioning
my fund of questions, not
asking if there were others I should ask.
Each of your questions is a puncture
in the structure of my thoughts,
and while at times the ready answer
forms the plaster to restore it,
I think, my child, we’d better now
expand each hole into a doorway.
You can play beyond my world.
I would fear, I know,
to live without regrets.
The tap continually running.
The drain unguarded.
I will not watch my life dilute
and swirl away.
I’ll trust in value; regret
and fond rememberings…
the two go hand in hand, each
one hand free to lay their touch
upon each future past, in filtering
through my present.
The bathtub leaks,
yet I’ll plug the void as best I can,
standing strong within the shower of atoms
each tainted by my touch,
I’ll seek to treasure and regret.
I’ll set my feet within the swirl-
ing fullness of my life.