I will be an ancient one, weathered and worn.
I’ll scratch a hoe around my tomato plants,
while the summer sun warms my bones.
I am an embryo, cradled in liquid
security and mother love,
a growing mass of pure potential.
I was twenty-five. I looked for love
and found a smooth-talking liar
who left me drowning in his wake.
I will be nineteen. Save the world.
End pollution. Bring the downtrodden to their feet.
Drop government to its knees. Peace on earth; goodwill to all.
I am fifty, still searching for what’s missing.
Hungry, starving, craving to suck from life’s
marrow all that it might give me.
I will be seven. I’ll lie on my back in the damp grass
and lose myself in the wonder of the stars.
I was sixteen, holed-up in my room, lived in my books.
I was eighty-five when I traveled to the sea for the final time.
I am twelve, a tomboy dribbling a basketball around the driveway.
I will be thirty-three. I was sixty-one. I am forty-six.
I am dead. I am born. I am young. I am old. I will be born again.
I am birth, death, and all between.
Yes, I am.