That Sense of Being
What is this sense of being?
That I am, I have been, I will be-- is it a blessing
to ever feel time's razor edge, gathering its moments in my
memory as a squirrel hoards its seeds and nuts for winter,
food I will eat when my youth has long since melted down?
Or is it a curse other animals are spared: to know that
uncalled day will arrive, rudely, perhaps violently--
the one day we are bred to fear?
Yet for some unshared reason I have never feared that cold
day, that day of burning ice--not as a child, when I sensed it
signaled a return to heaven's luxurious playground, nor as a
young man when I thought dying to be no more than oblivion's mask.
Now I know death is only a sleight-of-hand, a party trick
of that great illusionist, Time, who is itself but a vapor,
a wisp of smoke veiling eternity....
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