How Many Years?

The Elaho - Jon Merk photo

How many years in love with the earth

are left to me?

I wonder, foolishly,

knowing there is only 

this one day, 

and then, 

another and another.

I unwrap them, one by one,

each quite unlike

every other.

When I was young and gay,

I often threw 

my treasurehouse 

away. 

Now I am old,

wrinkled, hobbling, slowed.

My needs are simple,

day to day.

I cackle, content

that all my seeds

are sowed. 

My bones are shining;

they were honed in fire and pain,

polished by smoothing hands,

soothed in gentle rain,

and the wild is a calling,

running through my veins.

These eyes have seen 

sunrises and sunsets 

beautiful enough 

to break your heart: 

the wonder of the earth,

the folly of man, 

co-existing 

in  a most uneasy plan.

In solitary mornings,

the song in my heart

spills forth into words,

that I send out

like little singing birds.

My poems are

pathways

that I leave behind 

so my children 

one day can find

my ever-grateful heart, 

when I have gone on

to whatever beauties await

we cosmic travellers

in the great beyond.