Was it only
Three years ago
We sat in these two chairs,

This very same wicker
Creaking as we recline
To sip on our tea? And was this the same

Sunset, all golden-boiling
Shade bays below the porch cove,
Where a dragonfly

Hurtles needlelike
Then pauses, its
Miniature mitts

Gripping a fern?
And were these
Our same thoughts --

Mixed need, mixed confusion -- and tell me,
Wasn�t the gate over there
Just as white, as fresh-painted?

I think it was all the same.
A late summer day, as I remember.
And we were already adults, infected

By remembering. And
No more pure,
Because of our sickness.

So why does it all look different?
Why does the town seem tinier, flimsy?
My mind is the same as before.

Is time so pervasive?
Tell me, am I the onlooker?

No, you are never the onlooker.
Nothing strays
Outside of the seasons.



�2005 by Jack Anders