Phases of history, cycles of moon––
as we grow older, the thought is jejune
that everything passes too soon, oh too soon.
The days seem to eat up our time with a spoon.
When I was younger, the days went so slow,
with nothing to do and nowhere to go,
and every day, every day––all were the same.
I needed adventure, but it rarely came.
Animals’ phases allow them to dare
to turn into something more special and rare.
Tadpoles swim landwards, developing legs.
Pupae to butterflies, chickens from eggs.
Rain falls and water runs west to the sea.
We try to go with it, my sister and me.
With leaves for our sails and vine pods for our ships,
what we wish for remains behind eyelids and lips.
The gutters are swollen and culverts are full.
We harness our boats, and we push and we pull.
But still they escape––rush away on their own.
I envy their future–unfettered, unknown.
In faraway places, I thought I’d be free
to discover new parts I was fated to be;
so I went after life like a kid at a fair,
from her carousel horse, reaching out through the air.
I could not resist the chance of surprise––
to grab the brass ring and capture the prize.
And yes, I did travel and how I did roam.
Life got faster the farther I wandered from home.
Now I’ve been through the phases from child to wife.
I’ve traveled and struggled and had a free life.
I’ve been on large vessels for months at a time,
and on most of my travels, I’ve had a good time.
If I’d known that the slow times were not going to last,
I would not have hoped for my time to go fast.
For now when the ending comes faster and faster,
The pace of my life is just courting disaster.
The sea seems to beckon, the boats are all tethered.
But my new dreams are tamer, my old dreams well-weathered.
Now I can go anywhere, do many things,
I wish for more time just to fold up my wings.