A Mellow

Early May 

There were the days when

Nothing made sense

And it didn't really matter.

All our lives are fiction

We make up our own

Stories anyway

Who is ever to say

That we aren't who we are 

As we say we want to be.

So, if I want to, I say I am a poet

Or a truck driver,

Or a journalist

Or maybe I grow vegetables

In the Rio Grande valley and

Call myself a businesswoman, 

Maybe I build a cabin

In a copse of woods 

Maybe I buy an old house,

Maybe I move shelter

As I'm going along, moving

From heaven into heaven

In my allotted nanosecond,

I break ground for new,

I hitch up my Orion's Belt, understanding

The Hunter comes as always, 

Even when stopping to think that 

Holding on could be the death

And why I must remember, in 

My dream, my prayer and lust, 

That in the breathless moment given me

I've determined to depart 

Intent, unafraid, full throttle

And when I think back on
All my longish years

Trying to remember the red-headed days

When I was wild in that freedom I hardly recognized

Until now, I'm beginning to think my

Last of time 

Might show up with some surprises.