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 Out of nothing there comes a time called childhood, which 
is simply a path leading through an archway called 
adolescence.
A small town there, past the arch called youth.
Soon, down the road, where one almost misses the life lived beyond the flower, is a small shack labeled, you.
And it is here the future lives in the several postures of arm on windowsill, cheek on this; elbows on knees, face in the hands; sometimes the head thrown back, eyes staring into the ceiling .
.
.
This into nothing down the long day's arc .
.
.

Poem by Russell Edson
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