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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Indian Summer, Part IV The days proceed. The nights turn 'round, Circling my dreaming self, Spooning my Beloved, Ever aware of her, though wandering the strange pathways of dreams. In my waking world, Everyone is older; Even my new grandson changes with us Day by day. Yet, there is no sense of alarm At this steady slide towards the Great Finality. I understand now, at last, that Change is permanent, But Time an illusion, a cosmic trick That fools the mind with misdirection, Making us think that the movement of clocks, The turning pages of our calendars, Are really measuring something -Other than our own foolishness- Oh yes, the hair turns white, One laughs at one's old ideas, The babe on your knee relentlessly transforms into a youth; Millions of small differences are endlessly piling up And carrying you along on their tide - But all that is Change; that's what you're measuring, really. The Past is all photographs and stories, The busy fondling of things that share in your changing, But you can't go back and relive even a second of it. The Future is arriving, Sneaking up behind you, or more like you're walking backwards into it, Though you feel like you're walking forwards - Another parlor trick. And you can't experience it until it gets here, Then instantly becomes the Past. So that leaves only the Now, The forever, omnipresent Now That has been since the Beginning of Everything, Which every mind perceives in its own way. Some think God's viewpoint is the collective Now Of Everything, All at once. What a view that must be. For me, my Now has become Indian Summer, A pivot point where light and dark, Warmth and cold Youth and age Here and there This and that Hang in a perfect balance. One day may as well be a thousand, A year, a moment. But as long as I'm in touch with whatever's happening In this Now, I'm alright with that.
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