A poem


It’s so fast, this loss

of wonderment at change this

habituation to losing time, the

Present. Someone you love

cuts their hair. So

strange, so alien, so

new, like Christmas uninvited and

then so quickly

ordinary. That self

gone to the shelf

of old photographs

given up to the past without saying

Goodbye. Like life — strange

passing one bright

candle without

the memory of a match struck.

White unremembering of black, wrinkled

skin ignorant of the smooth

pebble, narrow eyes meeting the wide-eyed

song of you dreaming still about

the future longing.